Blood, Guts, and Prune Juice
by SupernaturalBaby4Life
Summary: Monster of the week. Boys are hunting a monster with a taste for the elderly, but everything changes when Sam is caught unaware and nearly beaten to death by their monster. Dean figures he can handle the hunt alone while Sam recovers, but Sam takes a huge turn for the worse. Dean knows he has to save his brother, and he's prepared to do so at any cost. (Any time in late season 6)
1. Chapter 1

**Ok, this is MY FIRST FANFICTION STORY EVER! Just to let you know a bit about me, oh fans of Sam, Dean, and Castiel, I am 15 and from Connecticut. I love these boys with all my heart, and if you don't like Supernatural, please don't tell me, because I will go shrivel up and combust out of sorrow. Now, for the first ever story I will write (a Sam Hurt! And Dean Protective!)**

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Chapter 1

Sam blindly threw his arm out from under the covers, searching for his alarm clock, his face still buried in his pillow. His limp hand stretched its way to the button, and he sighed as the beeping finally stopped. Being a generally good morning person, Sam automatically sat up and stretched, letting out a yawn. Throwing back the cheap motel duvet, he swung his moose-sized legs over the bed onto the floor, grimacing as his toasty feet made contact with the linoleum. In nothing but boxers, he trudged slowly into the bathroom, early morning sunlight shining through his disheveled mane. He smiled into the mirror and reached for his toothbrush.

Dean groaned loudly into his pillow when he heard the shower running. He managed enough morning energy to lift his bleary eyes to the night stand. "7'oclock in the freakin' morning,_" _he grumbled to himself. Dean had almost settled back into dreamland when Sam started to hum in the shower.

"_Cuz I'm a cowboy, bah-bah-ba-bah, on a steeeel horse I riiiiide…."_

"Oh mother of God…" Dean groaned. He grabbed his second pillow and crushed it down on top of his head, desperately trying to muffle the sound of Sam's tone-deaf voice _attempting_ to sing Bon Jovi.

But, of course, Sam only grew louder.

The singing pierces further and further past the layers of cheap cotton covering Dean's ears until finally he threw the pillow at the bathroom door. "You son of a bitch!" he yelled. Sam's laugh was loud and clear over the thrum of water.

"Good morning to you, too, smiley!"

"Man, C'mon! It's not even morning! This is still, like, late night-time!"

"It's almost 7:30, Dean- Time to wake up and get going on this hunt. They had another kill just last week and we need to find this thing before another early bird misses the special." The monster they had been tracking had a specific taste for those in diapers…and not the baby kind.

As much as Dean knew they had to get a move on, he was just so damn comfortable.

"Five more minutes, sasquatch. Five. That's all I'm asking.

"No way, short stuff. Last time you said five minutes, I waited for half an hour. Get your ass out of bed."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

"Grumble…grumble…grumble."

Dean reluctantly got out of bed and waddled towards the bathroom. He drank way too much last night, his throbbing headache reminded him. "All right," he announced as he walked in the bathroom. "Be decent, and no peek-a-booing out of the shower. I'm coming in here to take a pis."

Sam laughed heartily. "No worries big bro."

Twenty minutes later, when the boys were washed, dressed, and packed, they headed out of their motel room and climbed into the Chevy. Dean felt his Impala rumble to life beneath him and a huge grin spread across his face.

Dean slid his shades over his piercing green eyes. It was way too bright out for eight in the morning, but yet again, that might just be his hangover. "Okay, let's go."

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"So, tell me again what we're looking at here?" Dean took a left at the intersection, heading towards to the county coroner's department. Sam sat shotgun, papers and files spread across his lap. "Well," Sam began, skimming over his notes. "Three bodies in the last five days- Multiple puncture wounds to the torsos. Whatever stuck 'em then sucked 'em, because all of the patients livers and heart were removed."

"Gross. So, we looking at something that eats human guts? How big were the puncture wounds?"

"Um," he glanced down and sifted through the papers, "About one inch diameter, perfect circles."

"Any connection between victims - Besides the fact that they were all in their 80's and up?"

"Not from what I could find. They traveled in different social circles, went to different clubs, homes, etc. They didn't even live near each other. Whatever this thing is, it's targeting them based on one factor and one only: their age."

Dean nodded. "So, who shit the bed first?"

Sam rolled his eyes. His brother was so eloquent. "Our first Victim, Randolph Harrison, age 92 was found dead in his room at the Apple Tree Senior Citizen's Center. Missing His Heart and Liver. Third victim, Maria Hernandez, age 86. Lived alone, found in her house by her son during his weekly visit, same MO." Sam paused.

"What is it, Sammy?"

Sam Shuddered. "Says here, the old lady's cats hadn't been fed in a few days, and when she croaked…"

"Oh…well…" Dean swallowed. "That takes Meow Mix to a whole new level, doesn't it?"

Both brothers were silent for a split second, and then simultaneously gave a little shudder. Sam shook his head and refocused on the file. "Finally, third victim, George Peeling, age 90- Taken from the Bingo Hall Bathroom on Tuesday night, found dead in an alley 3 miles away."

Dean tried to control the urge to smile, his lips twitching upward. Sam noticed it before Dean could stifle the grin. "What the hell's so funny?"

"He was-hehe- On the John, Sammy." As if that explained everything. Sam gave him a blank stare.

"You know…the commode, the oval office, the log cabin, the porcelain throne, the crapper, the-"

"Yah, Dean, I get that part. Thank you. But what's your point?"

"Well," he looked at Sam's so-not-getting-it face. "You know! _Talk about getting caught with your pants around your ankles…_"

Dean released the impish laugh as Sam made Bitch Face #31 and rolled his eyes. "Dude, you are such a child."

"Hey. I have a sparkling fucking personality."

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The Winchesters pulled into the County Coroner's office a little bit before 9:30.

They would have been there much sooner, but Dean had seen a sign in the diner window as they were driving:

"Apple Pie- Buy One Get One Free!"

Dean had nearly caused an accident when he turned hard to the left without so much as a blinker. But of course, Dean would argue, it was all for the pie.

So, now, in the trunk, they officially had shotguns, salt rounds, stakes, voodoo charms, hex bags, artillery belts, handguns, flamethrowers, demon traps, Latin spells, holy water…and two apple pies. Ooh, how intimidating.

They finally entered the building, flashing oh-so-convincing FBI badges. The boys strolled confidently into the morgue, Dean flashing a brilliant smile at the female officer behind the desk.

"Ok," Sam pointed to the wall of steel doors. "Door 7, 9, and 13." Dean slid out each tray accordingly and pulled back the sheets. Dean walked to the nearest tray. "All right, let's start with the freshest one-the one they found on the shitter." Dean smiled and gave a low, husky chuckle.

Sam slapped him upside the head.

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Dean pulled off his latex gloves, as did Sam. They had observed and recorded just about everything they could. "We know that the only organs missing were the heart and the liver, right Sammy?"

"Its Sam," he interjected quickly and robotically. He had done this many times before. "And it looks like it. I just don't know any kind of monster that has these types of killing patterns. Was there anything in Dad's Journal?"

"I didn't think so." Dean sighed. "But I'll look again. In the meantime, you can do research. Is your laptop still frozen?"

Sam stared at him. "If by 'frozen' you mean 'bugged down with a virus that you downloaded off of God-knows-what porn site,' then yes, Dean. Yes it is. Thank you for that. Really, it was so great opening up my laptop in front of Jo and Ellen and having them see that. Really. That girl was so nicely framed there, frozen on the screen."

"Hey," Dean threw up his hands in defense. "I already told you, Sammy, It wasn't' me!"

"Yep, right Dean. It must have been Cas."

"It's possible…"

"Shut up, Dean."

Silence.

Dean pouted, glaring at his feet. He waited until Sam had walked several feet in front of him.

"_You_ shut up…"

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Due to the lack of Internet access, Sam had to use the public resources. Dean dropped Sam off at the library to finish the research around 8 o'clock at night, when it would be most deserted.

"I'll be back here to pick you up at 10, ok? Call me if you need me." Sam gave a wave over his shoulder to let Dean know he heard him. Dean nodded to himself and took the Impala out of park. As he rolled away, he got a small nagging sensation in the back of his mind, like something was wrong. He slowed the Impala, eyebrows furrowed. He felt something, something in the air. He had always trusted his gut, but this time he was sure he was simply overreacting. "For Christ's Sake," He muttered under his breath. "When did you turn into such a chick, Dean Winchester?" He shrugged off the feeling and checked the rearview mirror one last time. Dean was comforted by the sight of his little (only in age) brother walking calmly into the library.

_See? _Dean told himself._ Nothing was wrong, you're just paranoid. Nothing another scotch won't fix, am I right? Oh but then again, that hangover was pretty nasty…but was it worth it?_

_Yah._

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Sam watched his brother cruise out of sight. He casually walked up the stairs to the front door. Sam's long fingers were resting over the great iron handle when the hairs on the back of his neck went fully erect. The feeling of being watched swept over him like a dark wave. Something was off. Really off.

Sam continued on normally, without giving away any hint of unease. He stepped inside the library, and let the door close behind him. Outwardly he appeared calm, but inside he was ready to strike. The atmosphere didn't feel….right. Even for a library, it was quiet. The lights were dim and his footsteps, quiet as they were on the carpeting, seemed to have an echo.

"Hello?" He called. "Hello?" He glanced at the open sign on the door. The library wasn't supposed to close until ten, and the door had been unlocked. Sam hastened his pace, searching for a librarian, or anyone. "Hello? Anyone here?" A rustle came from the corner, behind the children's books. Sam's hand flew to his side, fingers closing firmly around his gun. "Who's there?" Sam demanded as he drew his weapon.

Sam walked slowly and carefully, taking in every detail, listening at watching intently for any noise or shadow. There it was again-the rustle. He pinpointed the location. Sam walked in an arc around the aisle, going to quickly and not thinking. The blood was pounding in his ears. Sam stumbled, nearly falling completely as his foot connected with a heavy object blocking his path. Sam glimpsed down, his eyes meeting nothing but the dead stare of a blood splattered woman. Holes in her chest and abdomen were encircled by pools of red. The blood on her shirt and pants was a rust color, and the red pools on the carpet were caked. She had been dead for some time, but not more than an hour or two. Sam felt fear growing like a black hole inside his stomach. The dead body had caught him by surprise, and no matter how long he did this job, Sam knew he would never get used to seeing mutilated corpses. Taking a steadying breath, the young Winchester reached into his pocket and drew his cell. Dean answered on the second ring.

"Whadda ya' want?"

Sam sighed at his brother's friendly greeting. He sounded like he was already half in the bag. "It's Sam."

"Wassup? You ok?"

"I've got a body here, man."

"Shit. Who?"

"Looks like the librarian. Old lady, I'd say mid 80's."

"Same MO?"

"Yep. Holes and all."

"Ok, Sammy, you stay put. I'll be there in a minute, keep your eyes peeled." Dean was slipping on his worn leather jacket. Adrenaline starting to sober him up. He would be sure to grab a coffee later.

"Remember, kiddo, that thing might still be lurking around in there." Sam could hear Dean rustling around to find his shoes on the other end of the line. Sam carefully took in his surroundings, out of instinct, feeling again as if he were being watched. The library grew quieter still, until the silence was deafening. Another rustle in the corner broke the silence nearly making Sam jump out of his skin. He stepped quietly, willing himself to breath evenly and softly.

Dean's voice on the other end of the line startled Sam again, who nearly dropped his phone. "I think I figured out what our wee beastie is, Sammy."

"Dean…" Sam whispered, hearing the sound growing closer. The rustling was increasing in volume, and heavy breathing that was not his own seemed to be coming closer. Sam felt his pockets for extra clips. This was gonna be bloody.

"Yah, I think it's an Aswang, some creature from the Philippines. I was rooting through Dad's journal and it seems that he hunted one a few years back in Southern California. It prefers to prey on the elderly, but it will attack an individual. I guess it likes 'em ripe, huh there, Sammy?"

"Dean…" Sam was backing away from the corner now; the rustling had turned into a thumping and slithering sound, like something dragging itself across the floor towards him.

"They eat people's hearts and livers with this probe-thingy that's like their tongue. Sounds nasty right? Ha-ha, and a little bit naughty, if I say so myself." Dean's mind was too busy coming up with innuendos, and he didn't hear the tense atmosphere radiating from the receiver.

Sam stared wide eyed now, as the creature rose off the floor. Its yellow and red eyes connected with his own. The monster looked almost humanoid, with oversized limbs like tree branches - gnarled and knotted. Its face was distorted into wrinkles and scars. Its spine grew outside its body, vertebra making sickeningly moist, crunching sounds as the creature breathed, its chest rising and falling. The blood openly flowed from its mouth, leaving puddles of fluid on the floor next to its clawed feet.

Sam didn't move, didn't breathe, hoping it wouldn't notice him any more than it had.

No such Luck.

_But of course_, he told himself. _I wouldn't be a Winchester if I didn't have Winchester luck, now would I?_ Sam grimaced.

The creature let out a gargled scream, high pitched and bloodcurdling, like tires squealing on wet asphalt. It began to move towards Sam with incredible speed, despite its awkward and deformed body. "DEAN!" Sam yelled into the phone now, sprinting back towards the door. The creature made a swipe at his long legs, nearly tripping him. The cell flew from his hands and landed twenty feet away in the midst of the Horror/Mystery section. Sam would have laughed at the irony if he hadn't been running for his life. The creature released another battle cry and lunged again, this time missing. Sam lunged for the Blackberry, rolling sideways to avoid being crushed by one monstrously large foot. He reached for the phone, which now rested precariously on top of the Nancy Drew collection. "Dean! Get your ass here NOW!" Sam yelled frantically.

Dean heard it all through the receiver. "SAM?" he cried into the phone, sprinting out of the room without bothering to lock it. He could make out loud, crashing sounds - his brother struggling to run, to fight. His mouth went dry and his heart sped up. Dean could almost hear his father's voice in his head, reminding him of his most important job.

_I must protect Sammy. I must protect Sammy._

Dean sprinted out to the car and started her up. He pulled out of the motel lot with enough force to crash through a brick building.

_I must protect Sammy. I must protect Sammy._

"I'm coming Sammy!" he yelled into the phone, not even knowing if Sam was on the other line. His free hand was on the wheel of the Impala, which was pushing 90 as it screeched to a halt in front of the library. Sam was still yelling expletives through the phone as Dean burst through the heavy maple door. "Sam!" he yelled. Following the commotion, Dean raced to what looked to be the children's section. He heard Sam's gun go off, two consecutive shots. Panic welled up in Dean as he rounded the corner.

_Almost there Sammy, I'm almost there_.

Dean has his gun drawn, ready to join the fight.

But Dean stopped dead in his tracks when he heard Sam cry out in agonizing pain, a gut-wrenching yell followed by complete and utter silence.

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**Please Review! As I said, this is my first one! I need feedback! Tell me how to make it better! If you review, I will send you a complimentary DEAN WINCHESTER in the mail! Complete with a sweet jacket and a bad ass attitude! Call now and get a complimentary box of cookies, hand delivered by our man in leather ;)!**


	2. Chapter 2

_**PREVIOUSLY:**_

"I'm coming Sammy!" he yelled into the phone, not even knowing if Sam was on the other line. His free hand was on the wheel of the Impala, which was pushing 90 as it screeched to a halt in front of the library. Sam was still yelling expletives through the phone as Dean burst through the heavy maple door. "Sam!" he yelled. Following the commotion, Dean raced to what looked to be the children's section. He heard Sam's gun go off, two consecutive shots. Panic welled up in Dean as he rounded the corner.

_Almost there Sammy, I'm almost there_.

Dean has his gun drawn, ready to join the fight.

But Dean stopped dead in his tracks when he heard Sam cry out in agonizing pain, a gut-wrenching yell followed by complete and utter silence.

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**Chapter 2**

"NO!" Dean screamed, on the verge of tears. He had his gun already drawn as he stepped into the aisle. The hulking mass stood over his unmoving brother, its probe extended, slicing through Sam's chest. "DIE YOU SON OF A BITCH!" three rounds, four rounds, five rounds were emptied into the bastard's skull. If this thing was what he thought it was Dean knew bullets wouldn't kill it, but by God, he wanted the damn thing in pain. It let out a high pitched, furious squeal and launched from the ground, crashing through a window and retreating into the night. Dean could hear it wailing all the way down the street. It would be back- soon.

But Dean didn't care about that right now. Sam, his little Sammy, his baby brother, was unmoving on the ground, a puddle of blood forming around where he lay. He crouched down, refusing to cry, but feeling the burning sensation in his throat. "Sam? Sammy, please! Wake up!" Even with the crappy lighting in the library, Dean could see the clear trail of red smeared across Sam's chest. Dean tried moving him flat on the ground to see the full extent of the damage, but to his horror, his hand came away from the underside of Sam's head sticky and warm. "Shit Sam," Dean breathed through clenched teeth. "You hit your head, buddy. Don't I always tell you to wear your helmet? But do you ever listen? No…" Dean was trying to smile at his own stupid jokes, but the sorrow and panic were crushing him.

Jokes were just how he dealt.

Dean ran trembling fingers through his not-so-little brother's hair, like he used to when Sam was a kid. Dean could feel the tears running freely now. Sam was always so smiley, so happy. Watching him here, like this, so defeated and boneless made Dean want to hit something. Hard. He put his face down next to Sam's head, touching foreheads. "It's ok, Sammy." He said, more to reassure himself. "It's gonna be ok. I'm here, and I won't let anything happen to you." He gave himself a mental slap and wiped away the tears, working now to stop the bleeding. He ripped off Sam's tattered shirt and shredded it into long bandages. He put pressure on the wounds, in an attempt to stanch the bleeding.

Dean's heart soared when Sam let out a small groan. "Ok, Sammy boy. You still with me?"

"M-hm" Sam breathed in the affirmative. He could hear the obvious panic in Dean's voice, and he struggled to remain conscious, if only to make sure Dean didn't worry, but the pain was quickly descending into outright agony. Every second, the throbbing aches and the white hot slices of pain grew in intensity. He wouldn't be awake for much longer. Sam focused on Dean's voice, which seemed to be growing farther and farther away.

"Ok, Tiger, we're gonna get you outta here. The cops will be here any minute, thanks to all the shots we fired. Personally I don't really want to explain it to them, and I have the weirdest feeling that they won't believe us anyway. How about you?" Sam almost chuckled, but the flaming pain pulsing from his chest and his head collided with the effort, nearly sending him completely under. He let out an agonized whimper before he could restrain himself.

Unfortunately, Dean heard the small cry before Sam could muffle it. Dean's mouth went dry. Sam had been in pain before. He had screamed, he had cried, he had mostly just moaned and grumbled, but he never whimpered. Not like that, anyway. Dean felt so guilty, so angry. How could he let this happen to Sammy? He should have been there. That's what Dad would have said… But he could have a guilt trip later. Now it was time to help his little brother.

"Ok, ya big moose. I'm gonna see if I can sit you up now, ok? Just relax all right? But stay with me. I don't want you to fall asleep yet, you hear me? Not until I know that big melon of yours isn't gonna split open and leak brain juice all over my car. I just got her detailed, remember?" Without hurting himself this time, Sam let out a sound that sounded like a laugh. Pathetic as it was, it was still an effort. Dean knew Sam was just trying to make him feel better, so that he wouldn't worry as much, but Dean saw right through it. The green hue of his brother's face plus the cold and clammy skin- all of it was getting worse by the second. Dean had to stop the bleeding before Sam completely lost consciousness. But first, he had to get him home, before that monster came back.

"Sammy? I need you to keep your eyes open, ok?"

"mhhmhmhmm…"

"No, Sam, Open. Please, kiddo."

"ehhhhhhhh…'m tired" Sam was drifting to sleep. Dean started to panic, knowing with a concussion this bad, Sam needed to stay awake.

"Dammit Sam, WAKE UP!" the scream in the ear did the trick. As Sam's eyelids fluttered open, Dean did not like what he saw. The pupils were fully dilated, and blood was still dripping freely from where Sam's head had made contact with the steel bookshelf's corner. Dean ran back to the car and grabbed the first aid kit. In a matter of two minutes Sam's head was wrapped professionally with a white gauze and duct tape. Dean positioned himself behind his brother, propping his shoulders and head against his chest.

Sam was sitting up now, with Dean literally cradling his head so he wouldn't fall backwards.

"D-n?" Sam muttered, barely awake.

"Yah, what's up chuckles?" Dean was strapping Sam's arms to his sides with his belt, preparing to drag him out blanket style.

"I-hv a quest-n…" his head was pounding, and he could taste the metallic liquid welling up in his mouth, a delectable mixture of blood and bile.

"Shoot." Dean rolled him gently onto the blanket he had found in the employee lounge. Grabbing the ends, he dragged him towards the exit. Sam couldn't walk himself out, despite his protests, and Dean couldn't risk reopening his stomach with a fireman's carry.

"How…do we..K-ll it…" Dean laughed and muttered something along the lines of "_thatta boy_…" Sam smiled, and then grimaced. He was starting to sink. Fast. And he could feel it, too. The soothing rocking motion of the blanket he was riding wasn't helping him stay awake either. Sam needed to keep talking.

"Ser-sly, D-n. How? Cuz you wanna know…sum..thin?"

"What's that, bigfoot?"

"That damned…asswipe…really…pi'sd me off tonight. I'm no' very happppeeeeeeee…"

"Me neither, bud." The effort of pulling Sam across the floor was greater than Dean had expected, and he was running out of stamina. Sam was getting too big for this!

"Well-_grunt_- Dad's journal said that-_grunt_-we have to pierce it through the heart-_grunt_- with the bone of a saint. Then-_grunt_- we have to speak all that '_voodoo that you do_' Sammy. That's your job, so you got-_grunt_- to be in tip top shape. No more- _grunt_- slacking off like this." He laughed breathlessly. Dean had dragged Sam all the way to the Impala and carefully set down his upper body onto the pavement so he could catch his breath. "Man," he panted. "I'm in good shape, but you need to lose a few pounds."

Sam let out a small wheezing sound that Dean took to be a laugh.

_You're gonna be ok, Sammy. You're gonna be ok._

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Dean kept one hand on Sam's ribs the entire car ride back, despite the hot wetness that was soaking continuously through the bandages and onto Dean's palm. The feeling of Sam's chest rising and falling was reassuring. It said _"I'm here, Dean. I'm still here."_ Dean drove as fast as was safe, avoiding any potholes or gravel spots that might jar Sam. Once they got back to their motel room, he quietly transferred his brother from the car without anyone noticing.

As soon as Sam was sprawled out on the bed, his big brother tucking him in, he let the blackness take him. In his dreams, there was no pain, no bleeding, and no agonizing headache. He was with Jess. They were in California, walking along piers. He smiled, remembering her favorite ice cream stand right next to the gully named "Ass-Kisser." God, how she had laughed when she first saw it. Sam saw himself with her, strolling, kicking water at each other. He picked her up and swung her around in circles, collapsing into the warm sand. She smiled and kissed him, and he could feel it. The warmth, the softness, the love- the brush of her golden sun kissed hair on his face. He smelled her, the soapy, summer smell about her that he loved. He saw himself take the ring out of his pocket, the way he had planned it. She got tears in her eyes, the way he had known she would. _This is reality,_ he told himself. _The pain is the dream_. _This has to be real; it has to be._

Dean watched his brother sleeping. He never left the bedside, not once that night. They were family, and by God, he could be damned if he was ever gonna let something happen to Sam again.

It was 9 in the morning when Sam woke up. He tried to focus his eyes, but they weren't exactly cooperating. His glazed stare was zooming in and out, and he only was conscious enough to hear Dean talking to him. "Sammy?" he could hear him saying. "Sammy you here? Man please, please stay awake. C'mon Sam." But Sam couldn't and as he drifted back, he felt guilty. The panic in Dean's voice was sincere, and he wanted to reach out to Dean, to tell him he's ok, but he couldn't. The Wave took him and he Sank.

This was more than Dean could take. He saw Sam surface for a second, looking around for him. "I'm right here, Damnit!" he yelled again. But Dean knew Sam couldn't hear him, so he sank back into his chair and waited…and waited…and waited. Nothing. Not a single Fucking thing. Dean was about to explode with anxiety and guilt and anger. He needed help (which he hated to admit) but he couldn't take this thing down without a partner, and Sam was out of it. Sighing and rubbing his stubbly chin with an exhausted hand, he picked up the phone.

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"Balls." Bobby exclaimed when Dean had finished his explanation.

"Put so elegantly, as usual, Bobby."

"All right, ya idjit. How's Sam right now?"

"Sleeping, sleeping, snoring a bit, I think he just twitched."

"Now don't you go being a smartass to me, boy." Bobby sounded gruff on the phone, but really, he was worried out of his old mind. Dean couldn't see him stooped over in his chair, hat off and fingers nervously running themselves through his remaining hair.

Sam and Dean were the closest thing he had to children. They were family. Course, he would never tell them that. He shook his head and gave a snort. Dean had enough trouble getting through doors with that big head of his. But all the same, Dean needed him, and Damned if he wasn't gonna be there.

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"It's ok, Sam." Dean said to his sleeping brother. "Bobby's on his way. He's gonna save your sorry ass. I'm telling you man. If you don't wake up in the next hour, I'm sending you to the hospital. And I won't even sneak you any good food. I will force feed you all their grey steak and green Jell-O. You will be begging me for a cheeseburger, and I will eat them, right in front of you. I swear." He tried to say it lightly, to freshen up the stale silence of the room. Except for the monotonous and soothing sound of Sam's breathing, Dean had been sitting in complete silence for almost ten hours. He ran a hand through Sam's hair, brushing it away from his face. He went about cleaning Sam's bandages and checking his home made stitches, which were in excellent condition, of course. He smiled to himself and went to the fridge to get another beer. He rummaged for several minutes until he found a full bottle and a sandwich he picked up at a gas station. He grabbed a napkin and the bottle opener, ready to take in the first real sustenance he'd had in almost a day. A sound behind him, a shuffling and sliding sound, made him freeze, drink in hand. He set the beer on the table. It was louder now, the shuffling, and the pulling. His hand flew to his gun as he turned and pointed-safety off and finger ready to pull, adrenaline pumping in his ears.

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	3. Chapter 3

**PREVIOUSLY:**

Dean smiled to himself and went to the fridge to get another beer. He rummaged for several minutes until he found a full bottle and a sandwich he picked up at a gas station. He grabbed a napkin and the bottle opener, ready to take in the first real sustenance he'd had in almost a day. A sound behind him, a shuffling and sliding sound, made him freeze, drink in hand. He set the beer on the table. It was louder now, the shuffling, and the pulling. His hand flew to his gun as he turned and pointed-safety off and finger ready to pull, adrenaline pumping in his ears.

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"Holy Shit, Dean!" Sam cried, propping himself up on the headboard, struggling to sit up. Man, did he have to pee, and getting a gun pointed in his face three seconds after waking up was not exactly improving his bladder control.

Dean's face was priceless, a mixture of relief and shock. He kind of looked like a fish, mouth round and eyes all bulgy. Sam would have laughed if not for the persistent aching in his chest.

Dean recovered momentarily. "Sammy!" He threw the gun down on the table and sprinted to his brother's side. He wrapped his Sam in a fierce bear hug, while still avoiding his injuries. Dean held him like that a long time, but not too long.

It's not like he was having a chick moment or anything.

Dean gave a manly cough and pulled away, holding Sam out an arm's length to inspect him. He gave a mild nod of approval and restrained himself from hugging Sam again, noticing the pink blush creeping into Sam's face.

"Jesus, Sammy. You're gonna be the death of me, you know that?"

"Dean?" Sam's voice was pleading, and Dean mistook the imploring tone for pain.

"Yah, Sammy? You ok?" Dean was sincerely worried, and Sam saw it.

"Please, Dean. I'm begging you."

"What? Whatever you need, little bro, just say the word."

"Please. Stop calling me Sammy."

Dean just laughed and rustled his hair. They both knew he would never stop. Sam smiled to himself, trying to appear annoyed but failing. Both boys knew that Sam truly didn't mind the nickname. Sam just wanted Dean to _think_ he didn't like it. However, quite on the contrary, having Dean call him Sammy reminded him of better days, when they were a family (dysfunctional although it may have been). Dean was his big brother, and he would always be there for him.

But right now, as Sam's body reminded itself, Dean needed to let Sam go do his business _alone_.

"Uh, Dean?" Sam slid his legs, heavy with sleep, to the edge of the bed. "I gotta get up, man."

"Oh no you don't, sasquatch. You need to stay put. Big, Blonde, and Beautiful back there did a real number on you, buddy, and I am not letting you outta this bed until I know that you won't fall on your face and tear all my beautiful stitches out. No way am I wasting any more quality thread on you." Dean was relieved to see Sam crack a tired smile.

"Very funny, Dean. Now, C'mon, man. I gotta get outta bed."

"I said no, Sam. Please, take it easy for a little while. You need to relax and get your strength back."

Sam was getting frustrated. "I'm fine, Dean. I'm almost one hundred percent, I swear."

"Uh-uh. Well, then, Bigfoot. If you're good as new, then you'll have no problem fighting your way off this bed."

Dean placed one hand on Sam's uninjured shoulder and pushed, sending Sam backwards onto the mattress. Dean put only a minimal amount of force into it, but even then, Sam was helpless. Even using all the strength he had left, Dean's arm wouldn't budge. Sam sighed in defeat.

"Yah, that's what I thought." Dean removed his arm and helped Sam back into a sitting position, cradling his injured head ever so slightly.

Sam shrugged off the assistance, pouting. Dean was nursing him and coddling him like a four-year-old with a scraped elbow. He was a grown man, dammit. "Well, then help me up, Dean."

"Shit, Sammy. Why do you want to get outta bed so bad? I said you're not-" Dean took a look at his little brother's face, embarrassment and stubbornness sprawled across his expression. Dean let out an amused chuckle. "Jesus, Sammy. Why didn't you just say so? "

And so, Dean led his little brother into the bathroom, despite protests from Sam about how he was "just fine" and could "walk by his own damn self." Although, there were several moments during the fifteen-foot march to the lime green motel bathroom where the pounding in Sam's head became almost too much to bear. When the dizziness swept over him, it was at those moments he was glad Dean was there.

He knew that Dean wouldn't let him fall.

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After Dean had settled Sam back into bed, he slept for the first time in almost 36 hours. Knowing his brother was okay and that this freakin monster was going to die (painfully, he might add) soothed him away to a dark, blissfully dreamless respite. However, this period of sweet escape was short lived. Early morning sunlight shone across Dean's closed eyelids all too soon, disturbing him from his nap.

Dean's eyes fluttered open and glared at the clock. It was a little past nine in the morning. He pushed back the covers and went straight across the room to Sam's bed. The kid was still out like a light, but Dean was comforted by what he saw. Sam had some color back in his face. His stitches were looking clean, and his breathing was easy and restful. Dean felt a weight melt off his shoulders. Sam seemed ok.

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Dean was slapping together a sandwich when a harsh knock on the door sent his hand directly to his sidearm. He skirted past the window, careful to stay out of the line of sight. Backing into the corner next to the door, Dean raised his weapon.

"Who's there?" he called after another sharp series of knocks.

"Open the damn door, ya idjit."

Dean rolled his eyes and smiled in relief. He stood erect and holstered his weapon. Dean peeped through the window. Sure enough, there stood Bobby. His bag was slung over his shoulder and six-pack hung casually from his calloused hand. Dean eased the door open and led Bobby into the house, patting him on his shoulder and accepting his beer. "Man, Bobby. You are one smart son of a bitch, ya know that? You knew exactly what I wanted for Christmas." Bobby let out his small harrumph of a laugh and Dean sat down at the table. He popped open the can and let the foam slide down his throat. Sam always made Bitch Face #14 whenever Dean started drinking. He thought Dean had _"a problem." _

"_I don't have a problem,"_ Dean had told Sam. _"And I don't need no stupid AA meeting either. I can stop drinking whenever I goddamned want to." _ And see? Dean was technically right.

He simply hadn't wanted to stop yet.

Bobby set his pack down on the unoccupied bed. Dean could see the bulge of a shotgun through the rucksack. "I see you brought provisions." Dean raised an eyebrow. He hadn't asked Bobby to join the hunt, but then again, what had he expected? He had called the man, for god's sake, ranting about his problems. Of course Bobby showed up.

"So does this mean you're on the hunt?"

Bobby turned and gave him the "no shit Sherlock" look, perfected over years of practice.

Again- what did Dean expect?

Bobby trudged his way over to Sam, a frown on his face. When he lifted up the blankets to see the chest injuries Bobby sucked in a sharp breath.

"Balls." He huffed. Dean simply nodded in agreement. It goes without saying that Sam would carry those scars for the rest of his life, but that's not what mattered. Dean had been frantic, not knowing if the monster had hit some internal organ or some main artery. Scar tissue was the least of his worries. Dean closed his eyes and listened as Bobby checked his work, mumbling inaudibly.

The eldest Winchester rubbed a cold, dry hand over his stubbly face, trying to erase the images of his brother lying on the floor, blood gushing from his head and chest. The pictures were burned into his mind, and every time he blinked, they were there- crisp as the originals. Dean remembered rounding the corner, seeing that son of a bitch impaling Sam's chest. Dean shuddered, recalling that panic he had been in. He had thought that Sammy was done for, that this was it. But he wouldn't- COULDN'T let himself wallow like that. Not here- not with Bobby ten feet away and an injured moose depending on him.

Dean had to stay strong; he had to hide behind his smartass cover, like he always had. Why? Because it works. And if it ain't broken, don't fix it. He slapped on his bravado, set his beer down on the table, and plastered that grin of his smack-dab in the middle of his face. "So," he swaggered over to Bobby. "What do you think of Sleeping Beauty, here? Gonna kiss him and wake him up or what? I wouldn't do it either. He's not exactly the most attractive princess in the land, is he? Ha-ha, maybe if we dressed him in drag it would be easier for you to-"

Bobby cuffed him upside the head…Lovingly.

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Sam was on the beach again, walking with Jess. She was showing the ring to everyone they walked by, whether she knew them or not, just like he figured she would. He smiled and nuzzled his head into her hair, breathing in the smell. He frowned, and tried again. Something wasn't right. She didn't smell right. The smell of cheap whiskey and gunpowder replaced the soap and sunshine previously wafting through his senses. Sam's frowned deepened and he started to panic as her tinkling laughs were drowned out by a gruff yet familiar monotone. He called to her, but she couldn't hear him. She began to fade, walking up the beach without him. "Wait!" he called, willing his legs to run faster, to move towards her. But, the deep voice called him backwards. Jess turned to him, one last time, a tear in her eye. This time her voice was crystal clear, resonating in his head.

"It's ok Sam" she said coldly. "You left me alone before, remember? You can do it again."

Sam screamed.

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"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Sam eye's shot open and he thrust himself off the bed with more force than he knew he had. He saw spots and almost faded back to oblivion when white-hot pain, worse than being skinned alive, erupted from his chest. He couldn't breathe, the pain was suffocating him. His head felt like it was going to fall off, chunk by chunk. He gasped and sputtered, clawing at his throat, somewhat aware that he was crying. He was almost completely oblivious to the voices that were calling his name, holding him down. He couldn't feel anything except the pain. He wanted to die, he wanted to fall asleep again and never wake up. Why was there so much pain? Sam could feel his throat going raw from screaming, but still not breathing. He could only feel the hurting, the throbbing, the aching, and the stabbing.

But there in the back of his mind, he felt it. A hand was rubbing his back, in small circles. He recognized the motion in all the chaos. Dean. It was Dean. When Sam used to get sick as a kid, Dean would always rub his back the way mom had rubbed his. It was soothing and comforting, a taste of reality. He tried to focus on, to feed off it, and it calmed him, but Sam still couldn't breathe. His chest felt like it was going to explode if he didn't take a breath. But the pain, it was so bad. He couldn't expand his rib cage without feeling a thousand screwdrivers shoved simultaneously shoved into his flesh. But there it was, the hand, rubbing his shoulders, calming him down. The pain subsided, even the slightest amount, but Sam felt his brain shutting down from lack of oxygen. He knew he should take a breath, a gulp, of air, but somehow, he couldn't. He tried once or twice, his chest lurching, trying to remember how to intake and contract. He started to panic as everything went fuzzy. "Breathe," the hand was telling him. "Please, Sammy. Just breathe." Sam knew it was Dean, he knew it. He focused on Dean; Dean, who was there, comforting him; Dean who needed Sam as much as Sam needed him. Sam clenched his wracking body, and with his last ounce of consciousness, opened his throat.

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Dean almost sobbed with relief when Sam sputtered and took in a gulp of air. "Oh Sweet God!" Dean cried dizzy with relief. Sam took in a first few shaky breaths, deep gulps that sounded forced and unnatural. Dean knew he was in there trying- trying his damn hardest to breathe. After seconds that seemed like years, his breathing was shaky, but natural and steady, and his heart rate was returning back to normal. Dean sat back in his chair, feeling like he might throw up, but he never stopped rubbing Sam's back, small circles that were as much for his benefit as they were for Sam. Bobby was propped up against the wall, trying to steady himself. They had lost Sam for a second there, and Bobby had stood there helpless, trying, but not succeeding.

"_What the hell is going on?!"_ Dean had screamed. Sam had just bolted right up outta bed, straight into a sitting position like he was being electrocuted. Bobby had seen the look of absolute pain, raw and pure, spread across the poor boy's face before he started convulsing on the bed, guttural screams erupting from his throat. Sam had started clawing at his own neck, fingernails cutting into the skin. Even now, Dean couldn't bear to look at the angry red claw marks Sam had inflicted upon the pale skin of his own gullet.

Dean had been as cool as Death externally, crouched next to Sam calling his name, smacking between his shoulder blades, screaming at him for not breathing. But Bobby could see the unrestrained panic and despair looming in his eyes, the tears he could not hold back, the determined look on his face that grew more like that of a frightened child every second. Bobby had tried propping Sam up, to help him breath. When he had grabbed Sam's torso to slide him against the wall, he had felt the warmth seeping through the bandages and onto his hand.

"Bitch!" He screamed, wiping his red palm on the blanket. "Son?" he had screamed in Sam's unresponsive face. "Open your eyes and take a breath, Dammit!" But to no avail.

Dean had sat there, a look on his face that was as haunting as it was heart wrenching. Dean rocked himself back and forth, rubbing Sam's back and humming something that sounded like "Hey Jude."

Bobby had been amazed when Sam actually started breathing again, shaky at first, but now regular and peaceful. Dean remained, with one hand on his brother's chest for reassurance. Both eyes fixed on his brother's pale and haggard face.

Bobby approached Dean carefully- gently, even. "Son?" he placed one hand on Dean's shoulder. He sighed silently in relief when he wasn't swatted away. Dean had just needed a minute, and Bobby understood that. Dean cleared his throat to talk, but didn't take his eyes off his brother.

"Yah?" He coughed again, attempting to clear the blockage in his throat that they both knew wasn't there.

"Dean, we gotta patch your brother up now."

"Yah, right Bobby. Sorry, I'll get out of your way." He didn't move.

"Dean?" Booby felt bad about pressing Dean like this, but they needed to stop the bleeding.

"Yah, no, I gotcha, Bobby." He stood, hesitating as he pulled his hand off of Sam's chest. He ran a finger across Sam's forehead, wanting to brush his unruly bangs out of the way of his face. Dean paused, hand above Sam's eyebrows.

Bobby sighed now. "Dean, really, c'mon, I gotta-"

"Bobby," Dean began. Bobby could hear in his tone that something else was up.

"What?"

"His forehead. He feels…really hot."

Bobby furrowed his brow. He stepped forward and placed his own hand on the broad forehead of the young Winchester. "Holy hell," he muttered. "You could damn near scramble an egg on that thing."

"I don't get it!" Dean paced angrily. "The stitches were sterile, the wounds were patched, there's no infection. He was fine less than six hours ago, Bobby! He got out of the damn bed and took a leak, for Christ's Sake! Then we sit down to have a beer and he God damn seizes, nearly strangling himself!? What the hell are we missing?" Dean was sitting at the table now, hands in head. God, he was tired.

Bobby felt a nagging in the back of his head. He knew there was something he needed to remember, but curse his old age; his brain was giving him a genuine "Fuck you, old man" moment.

"Hey, idjit, what did you say you were huntin' here, again?"

Dean lifted his head up. "Something from the Philippines called an Aswang. It prefers its food ripe, if you know what I mean, but Sam was in the wrong place at the wrong time." Dean felt another wave of guilt wash over him.

Bobby's memory rushed at him like a train. "Balls!" he exclaimed. "Your Daddy fought one o' those bastards back in Sacramento in '93." Dean raised his head, staring intently.

"I know." Dean interjected. "I also know how to kill it."

"Well, _woohoo for you_, boy." Bobby frowned. "But I bet you didn't know that it juiced up your brother here." Dean stared at him, mouth open- a storm building in his eyes.

Bobby swallowed, continuing. "And we've got less than 72 hours, so get off your ass."

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**IMPORTANT: REVIEW AND TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT TO HAPPEN NEXT! IT'S ALL UP TO THE READERS! I WON'T CONTINUE UNITL I HAVE 5 GOOD NEW IDEAS, SO REVIEW!**

**The next chapter will be awesome, I promise! However, between English and Algebra homework, I have no life. Therefore, I am able to spend my limited downtime on my fanfics! YAY! Nothing screams virgin like that, right? hahaha**


	4. Chapter 4

**Previously:**

"I know." Dean interjected. "I also know how to kill it."

"Well, _woohoo for you_, boy." Bobby frowned. "But I bet you didn't know that it juiced up your brother here." Dean stared at him, mouth open- a storm building in his eyes.

Bobby swallowed, continuing. "And we've got less than 72 hours, so get off your ass."

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"Ok, one second." Dean sighed and took another swig of the cheap scotch Bobby had offered him. The burning sensation it left in his throat was almost comforting. "Run this by me again- summarized, if you please?"

Bobby rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Monster hit Sam. Sam goes Ouchy. Monster stick Sam with probe, Probe release toxin. Toxin Kill Sam. Kapeesh?" Bobby didn't mean to be gruff, but he was as worried as Dean, and sitting here sure as hell wasn't helping his old nerves.

"All right, no need to go all '_grumpy old men'_ on me, Bobby." Dean stood, stretching his legs. He wandered over to Sam's bed, placing a hand on his brother's freakishly large forehead. It was still burning, but it seemed to be getting cooler. "I think the Aspirin helped a little, Bobby. I think his fever is going down a bit." He paused. "He doesn't seem that sick now." He looked at Bobby.

Dean's eyes were almost pathetically hopeful, and Bobby felt awful, but he knew the truth, and he couldn't let Dean's hopes get too high. He chose his words carefully. "Yep," Bobby began. "But like I told you, that attack your brother had a while ago was mild, and only the beginning. The way this venom works is complicated. It runs through your system, amplifying the sensitivity of every nerve, every connection." He shuddered. "We can't imagine that pain he's in. That's why we either have to keep him under, which I don't recommend, or we get him more than a few Tylenol PM."

Dean sent Bobby a humored skeptical glance, one eyebrow raised. "Are you suggesting we give Sam medical grade Painkillers?" Dean chuckled to himself, remembering the last time they had made that mistake. When Sam was 12, he had to get his wisdom teeth pulled out. Let's just say it didn't go well.

"Well," Bobby let out a breath. "It's the best chance we got of savin' your brother." He paused, then shrugged, taking a steadying breath. "Or at least, the best shot we got at keeping him alive longer." The venom, as he explained, could only be extracted from the body by a very old Filipino ritual. Bobby already had all the ingredients, except for one pesky little detail. The Aswang had to be in the room, alive, when they cut out its heart to throw into the flames to complete the spell.

Dean grinned mischievously, grabbing the keys to the Impala from the counter. "Well," he laughed. "There's only one place I know to get Morphine and an IV stand, and it sure as hell ain't Wal-Mart.

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The Hospital parking lot was practically empty, save for the few Porsches scattered under the street lamps. Bobby straightened his tie and checked his lapel to make sure he had the right fake ID. "We were goin' with the FBI on this one, right?"

Dean paused, checking his own lapel. "Yep, I'm Young, you're Scully."

"Hey, ya idjit, no way I'm bein' Scully."

Dean flashed him his trademark grin. "Well, you sure as hell aren't Young." Dean's Husky chuckle echoed in the empty lot as he skirted around the Impala, avoiding Bobby's impending slap to the back of the head.

"Ya idjit!" Bobby called after him. Bobby couldn't help but laugh, though. It was true, he realized as he watched the younger man walk to the entrance. Bobby felt it, age, wearing him down. Dean ran to the door so easily, so quickly. Bobby was still trying to get the aches out of his knees from sitting in the car on the way over here.

Dean waited for Bobby's old legs to carry him inside before entering behind him, and then stayed behind, enjoying the night air. It was a good night, and he figured he might as well enjoy it. Besides, Bobby could handle the receptionist. Dean took a deep breath and stared up at the stars, feeling the urge to call Castiel. But he was probably busy finding some freakish angel mojo weapon. Dean couldn't help but think Cas could easily fix Sam. Maybe he should give it a go…Nah. Cas is busy. They could handle this…right? He shuddered in the brisk air and walked inside.

The girl at the counter was a pretty young redhead, who was giving Bobby a bit of a tough time. Dean glanced down at her name tag. Amanda.

"Look, Agent," she said calmly but forcefully. "I cannot give you access to the storage floor. I am sorry, but you need a warrant." Bobby's originally complacent face turned into a scowl. He hated it when receptionists weren't stupid.

"Ma'am, we are agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and you will give us your full cooperation or we will have you detained for obstruction of justice and interference in a federal investigation."

Bobby's gruff and intimidating tone only made the young woman more stubborn. Dean rolled his eyes and sighed loudly. Bobby was so thick headed sometimes. He tapped Bobby on the shoulder, telling him to move aside. He slapped on his best Sam face (puppy eyes and all) and stepped closer to her desk, so he was leaning casually. "Hey there, miss. I know that this isn't exactly protocol, but I would really appreciate this. Please?" Bobby nearly choked in the background, smoothly turning it into a cough. Dean never said please to anyone. God, he was really hamming this one up.

Amanda's stubborn glare softened, and after taking in his expression, her whole face seemed to melt. She gave him a small smile. "Really," she continued, weaker now. "I feel bad, but I need a warrant. I'm not allowed…I could lose my job."

"No, no, I understand completely." Dean placed his warm hand on top of hers, feeling her heartbeat flutter a bit as a blush crept into her cheeks. He smothered it on so much; Bobby had to bite his cheek to control the laughter. "I understand, really, that we're asking a lot, but this is a really important case, and we need to look under every stone. I know there are risks here, but think about it. You could be saving someone life." His eyes were gushy now, and her lasts doubts crumbled away.

"Well, still…" She was glancing around now, checking to see if she would get caught.

"Please?" Dean was so close to her, his smell, like whiskey and old spice, surrounding her. _God,_ she thought. _That is a man. A real, fine man…_

Dean had her exactly where he wanted her.

"Amanda," he said now with a rich, husky voice. She shudder at the sound of her own name coming from this…this _hunk_.

Dean was so pleased with himself, laying on the Winchester charm like butter on toast. She was putty in his hands. If he hadn't been trying to save Sam, he probably would try to get into her-

"Here you go." Amanda practically whispered it, handing him the access key.

As they trudged to the elevator, Dean glanced back to see Amanda staring after him, twirling her hair around her finger. "Woo," Dean let out a breath of arrogant delight. "Did I own that or what? Heh heh." Bobby said nothing until the elevator doors closed. Then he slapped him upside the head…twice.

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It was a little after eleven when Dean and Bobby got back from the Hospital. The moon hadn't risen yet, and it was a crisp, cool autumn night. They unloaded their newly acquired goodies from Bobby's bag, stationing the IV drip on top of the night stand. After plugging in Sam, they gave it a squeeze to get it going. After a couple of minutes, the drip was constant.

After about half an hour of waiting for the Morphine to take full effect, Dean stood and walked to Sam's bedside. "Well," Dean announced anxiously. "Here goes nothing." He had been dreading waking Sam up again, fearing that this time, they wouldn't be so lucky.

"Sammy?" Dean waited for any response, any sign to show him that Sam could hear him. He grabbed Sam's uninjured Shoulder and shook it. "Sam? Sammy? Time to get your ass outta bed, little bro." He looked at Bobby, who just shrugged.

"Try harder." He suggested.

Dean gave him a look.

"Sam!" he shouted this time. "WAKE THE HELL UP!" The shout went directly into Sam's eardrums, sending vibration through his brain. Still, no response. "Dammit, Bobby, how are we supposed to help him if we don't know what's wrong? We need to make sure he is ok, we need to explain everything to him. Tell him what's going on!" He ran a hand through his hair. He turned and walked back to the table ready to sit down with another beer. He stopped, his body half lowered into the chair. "Did you hear that?" Bobby furrowed his brow.

"No, what was it?"

"I-I don't know. It sounded like…a giggling ten year old girl…" It wasn't until Dean said it that he realized he must sound crazy.

"O-K there kiddo, you need some sleep." Bobby was hushing his protests when the laughter sounded again, louder and deeper.

"What The hell?" Dean and Bobby looked at one another, then turned around.

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Sam felt dizzy, and his mouth was dry…He could have sworn someone was calling his name. "Sam!" he had heard. Ha-ha. Sam. It was a funny name. He felt the tip of his tongue on the inside of his mouth trying to pronounce "SAM" and he laughed. It tickled. He felt his whole body floating off the bed. It was cool-no wait, scary. Yah, it was definitely scary. No wait, it was kind of cool again... Yep, definitely super cool. But not natural. No, definitely unnatural. It was…Super…Natural…Supernatural. He laughed a deep chuckle. Supernatural sounds like "Pooper Natural." Ha-ha, that was a good one. Dean would like that one. Speaking of Dean, where was Dean? And who shut off the lights? He looked harder into the darkness. Nope, still nothing. Wait, are those my eyelids? Oh, yep. Yep they are. Sam laughed again at his own stupidity. Of course they are my eyelids! He didn't remember being blindfolded, and he was pretty sure they weren't someone else's eyelids… Well, pretty sure, anyway.

Sam pushed his eyes open, and was confused when he found himself looking at a water damaged ceiling. Wasn't he supposed to be floating on a cloud somewhere?

"D-n?" He cracked out. Why was his throat dry? He heard footsteps running towards him. They sounded like echoes, far away.

"Sam? Sammy?" Dean's cold hands made contact with his warm neck, causing Sam to gasp in surprise. "Dude! Yer hands are soooooooooo cooooold." His speech was slurring. Was he drunk? No, when he got drunk it was only on rum, and he couldn't taste coconut. He was confused when Dean started to grin in amusement.

He pulled his eyebrows together, thinking he missed a joke. "D-d you make…funny?" he asked, sincerely perplexed. Dean's smirk turned into a full on laugh as he wiped Sam's hair away from his eyes.

"Man, you are so high off your ass right now." Dean was trying futilely to control his laughter but that was harder said than done. Especially when Bobby was behind him howling.

"No, 'm not." Sam actually put on a pouty face, something Dean hadn't seen since he was thirteen. "I am not hiiiigh cuz I didn't take any drugs or pixie dust." Sam's face was set in stone.

"You-you mean 'angel dust', Sammy? Like PCP?" Dean wished he had a camera.

"No, uh uh. Pixie dust, f-r two reas-ns." Sam linked hard and held up one finger, hand floating in all directions. "Reas-n numb-r one: Pixies –r bett-r th-n angels, cuz ang-ls are pricks." He snorted. " 'cept Castiel. He's pretty chill."

Dean was struggling to control himself. "Ok, Sammy. " he prompted "what's reason number two?" he shot a look at Bobby who was still in the corner laughing.

Sam went on, completely serious, almost as if he were giving a lecture. "Reas-n num-br 2: Pixie Dust is wha' made Pe'er Pan go high in the sky, so, ya know…me too."

Dean rolled his head back, nodding in sincerely sarcastic agreement. "Your logic is astounding." He reassured his brother.

"Yah, I know. I'm Awes-m." Sam said it so nonchalantly that Dean would have slapped him upside the head if he hadn't been ready to cry from relief. Sam was awake. High off his ass, but he was fine.

"Sammy," Dean cleared his throat, regaining his composure. They had work to do, and they only had a small window of time before Sam went back to Dreamland. "What do you remember?"

Sam looked at him hard and serious, so serious in fact that Dean thought for a second he was about to say something incredibly intelligent or helpful. But of course, he was wrong.

Sam's intent gaze never left his face. "I ha'sumthin to tell you. Is a matt'r o life and death, Dean."

Dean nodded. Sam pulled himself in closer wrapping one arm around Dean's neck so Dean's ear was next to Sam's mouth.

"D-n," he whispered. Bobby moved in closer, under the pretense, like Dean, that Sam was about to say something intelligent.

"Yah, Sammy?"

"I…hehehehe…I fa- hahahahahahahaha- Dean, I kinda far-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAA!" Sam was crying, doubling over, laughing so hard it was silent.

"Sam?"

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I far-farted Dean! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!"

"Oh sweet mother of god." Dean stood up and walked to the kitchen. Sam was gonna need a couple of minutes. Dean popped his unopened beer, now warm on the table. Still, a beer was a beer. Sam was still pounding on the bed, face red and his back shaking, gasping between barks of laughter.

Dean laughed despite himself. Sam did look kind of ridiculous. Bobby was shaking his head slowly from side to side. "Boy," he began. "When you said he didn't handle meds well…"

Dean and Bobby looked at each other.

Sam snorted.

"Great idea Bobby. Really." Dean watched his little brother cracking himself up, and couldn't help but smile. It had been a long time since Sam laughed like that. Even if he was high, Dean could enjoy it, even if only for a little while.

"Sam," Dean sat back on the edge of the bed, interrupting his laughter.

"DEAN! Holy crapola, man. When did you get here?" Sam was stopped laughing, and took on the appearance of a deer in the headlights…no, more like a moose in the headlights.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I have been here this whole time. Now, Sam, I need you to focus."

"Oh, Dean!" He cried, falling sideways to hug his brother tightly. "Man, I love you man. You are, like, the best big brother ever. You know that? Well you do now. You kick ass and take names. You are so cool." Sam wrapped him in closer. "Hehe, Dean, you're blushing. Hehe." Dean actually couldn't help it; he leaned into the hug, enjoying the warmth, the familiarity. But of course, Dean would deny for years that he liked being hugged by his little brother.

He wasn't some chick.

Bobby was openly laughing now. "Idjits…"

"BOBBY!" Sam launched off the bed before Dean could snag him and walked sideways into the wall, making a loud "OOF!" He bounced off at an equal and opposite angle, which really is the only way he made it to the table. He stopped, swaying slightly. He pointed a finger in the general direction of the wall. "Hey," he threatened. You watch it. I'm walking here." He shrugged his shoulders out of habit, repositioning the faded jacket that wasn't there. Bobby was nearby, standing ready to catch him as he finished loping across the floor. "Bobby! Robert! When did you get here?"

Bobby laughed as Sam fell forward into a warm embrace. _Jesus,_ Bobby groaned inwardly, _when did this kid get so damned huge?_ He lowered Sam to a chair and shook his head at the oblivious cheerful expression he received.

Dean laughed, kind of liking the new "huggy" Sam. God, he was never gonna let the kid live this one down. Bobby patted Sam on the shoulder and a huge grin split the sleepy moose's face in half. "Sam, you dumbass. Look what you got yourself into."

"Uh-uh. Yep."

"You with me?"

"Uh-uh. Yep."

Bobby chuckled and Dean cut in, ready to get down to business. "What do you remember Sam? What do you remember from the library?"

Sam stopped and made a face. It looked like he was constipated; but really, it was just his doped up thinking expression. He made a move to speak, then stopped himself.

Dean saw the flinch, and knew he had to push him further. "C'mon Sam, we need to kill this thing and patch you up. I need to you tell me everything."

Sam nodded, slow up and down. "Well, I think…yah. I was in a library." He smiled, obviously proud of himself. The expression a dog gets in its face the first time in shits in the backyard instead of the house.

"That's great, Sam. Really. Thank you. What next?" Dean was on the edge of the bed, keeping Sam focused on his face so he wouldn't trail off again.

"Weeeellllll, I… I tripped. I tripped over something, and Nancy Drew was there…"

"Nancy Drew? You tripped over Nancy Drew?"

Sam snorted. "Don't be stuuuuuupid Dean," Sam reached forward and pinched his brother's cheek with a fuzzy, clumsy hand. "Nancy Drew is like, 12 years old. I wouldn't trip over some girl. No." he stared out into space, feeling like Nancy Drew was important, but not knowing why.

Sam looked at Dean.

Dean stared back.

Sam sneezed.

Dean threw the tissue box at him.

"Nope, I got nothing, man."

Dean sighed and stood up, running a hand through his hair. "Sam, c'mon. I dropped you off, I watched you walk in. You called me five minutes later, all hell breaking loose in the background. What. Happened. What did you see?"

Sam pictured it, walking in. He grabbed the handle. No wait, something was wrong. Something, a felling, was wrong. The feeling…the feeling…the feeling…

Of being watched.

Suddenly, it hit him like a train. The images were clear in his head. Him, on the floor, the hard metal shelf. The children's section- the librarian with her unseeing eyes . The monster tackled him, sending his phone spiraling out of his hand. He remembered what he saw, what he noticed about the creature. He remembered lying, barely conscious ion the ground waiting for his brother to come find him, to save him. He saw the monster walk towards him, extending his spears, he remembered the stabbing, and the gurgling of his own blood as it was sucked from his body. Sam could feel tears in his eyes. It had been so horrible. Why was he crying? He never cried! Was he really this upset? What the hell!

Dean looked on concerned as his brother's carefree expression grew somber, then terrified. When he started crying, he knew he couldn't take any more of this shit.

"Sam! Snap out of it."

It hit him like a train. "The heart!" he yelled, sending Dean almost reeling to the floor.

"What about a heart, Sammy?" Dean was so confused.

"Sam?" Bobby was at the foot of the bed now.

"When, the thingy stuck me with the other thingies," Sam was using a voice that Dean hadn't heard since Sam's first hunt. It was the voice that let Dean know Sam was scared. Dean patted him on the bicep awkwardly, hoping it would calm him down.

Note to self, stop giving Sam drugs.

Sam continued, rocking back and forth slightly. "When it stabbed me, it had this thingy on its chest, a mud flap thing, like the ones we see on the highway, Dean, on the 18 wheelers. Why do they have mud flaps, Dean? We always get sprayed anyways and-"

"Sam, focus."

"Sorry."

Bobby took a deep breath.

"So anyway," Sam was playing with his stitches now, and Dean had to slap his hand away from them like a child at the candy store. "But Dean, they're itchy!" He was whining, and Bobby was chortling in the corner. Dean shut him up and told Sam to keep going. "So, as I was saying to you, it opened up its tummy like this-" Sam held his arms out and made a weird gesture, like lateral crocodile jaws from his chest. "Then it pushed out its stickies and plunged them into _**my **_tummy. It hurt. But he was all glowy and poofy and weird, and I could see his heart, Dean. It had to open its tummy and I could see its heart."

Bobby and Dean exchanged glances. They had just found the monster's weak spot.

Sam continued, straying more and more as exhaustion and morphine threatened his sanity. "I heard you Dean, yelling. I thought you were still on the phone, cuz it was on the shelf above me…I …think I threw it…No, I wouldn't throw it. I got pushed, and Nancy Drew…"

Sam Winchester grabbed his brother by the shoulders. "Dean," he said. "I remember why Nancy Drew is important!"

Dean blinked twice. "Why, Sam?"

"Because Nancy Drew mugged me and stole my Blackberry."

Dean paused.

"Goodnight, Sam."

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**That's chapter 4. Please Review! I will send you all miniature Sam Winchesters in the mail, equipped with morphine and pajama pants!**


	5. Chapter 5

PREVIOUSLY:

Sam Winchester grabbed his brother by the shoulders. "Dean," he said. "I remember why Nancy Drew is important!"

Dean blinked twice. "Why, Sam?"

"Because Nancy Drew mugged me and stole my Blackberry."

Dean paused.

"Goodnight, Sam."

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They had everything they needed in the trunk. Guns, salt, stakes, lighter fluid, you name it. Bobby ran through their list one more time, just to be safe. The spell was a tricky one, but nothing he hadn't seen before.

"So, you got all that Filipino mumbo-jumbo written down?" Dean was pulling on his jacket, car keys in hand.

"Course I do. You think I'm stupid?" Bobby sauntered up to the door. He and Dean both paused, looking behind them for reassurance. Sam was sleeping, peacefully, curled up in a comforter. He had the edges of the blanket curled around his fists, pulling the covers up to his chin. He looked like he was five.

The edges of Dean's mouth curled up and his hardened heart softened a bit. Sam looked so innocent, so small (despite his gangly feet hanging off the edge of the bed). His eyes moved to the bandages on the bed side table and the morphine drip. He realized how pale and drawn Sam's face was, how close he had come to losing him… He swallowed. He let his familiar rage take over, signaling the beginning of a hunt.

"Bobby."

The ice in Dean's voice made even Bobby wary. He always knew that Sam and Dean were the most feared men in the hunter's world, but sometimes he forgot the lovable boys he had raised were such good killing machines.

"Yah, Dean?"

"It'll be dead by morning." It wasn't a question.

It was a statement.

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They had tracked the Aswang to here: an abandoned factory on the edge of town. Dean shone his Maglite to the exterior upper floors. The windows were boarded up, the brick covered in graffiti and gang sigils. He huffed.

"They call themselves badass, huh?" said Dean, observing the spray paint.

Bobby chuckled. "Yep. They run with scissors. They're goddamned wild out here Dean. Watch out, they might get the jump on you."

They shared a laugh.

Then they two-handed their shotguns.

Stepping warily into the factory, Bobby and Dean searched through each room, shouting "CLEAR!" as they went. The basement, first, second, and third floor were completely desolate, meaning that either their wee beastie wasn't home at the moment, or they had it trapped on the fourth floor. As they kicked open the door to the last stairwell, they gave their shotguns a once over. Bobby felt the extra rounds in his pocket. Dean readjusted his backpack, comforted by its familiar weight. "Ready?" Dean's voice was quiet, but calm. Bobby gave him a nod, then a reluctant grin.

"Boy, you're buying me a coffee after this one."

"Bobby, I will buy you a goddamned Starbucks as long as you don't get yourself killed."

"It's not me you should be worrying about." Bobby retorted. They were jesting now, relieving the tension with some good ole 'we're probably going to die' hunter humor.

All was quiet, except for their intermittent banter. Dean's shoulders had started to relax slightly, and Bobby was griping the railing tighter than he was gripping the shotgun. Dean was giving him hell about needing a StairMaster when a faint ringing sounded in the stairwell.

Bobby and Dean exchanged glances. "Do you hear that?" Dean asked.

They were halfway to the fourth floor when the windows exploded, showering them in glass and debris.

"WHAT THE HELL?" Dean shouted over the noise. Bobby ran up to meet him; they sprinted up the stairs, windows blasting and light fixtures falling. The whole building was shaking, trying to crush them. Pipes were shaking on the walls, knocking their screws loose. Wow, this thing was pissed.

They reached the door at the top of the stairs. It was locked. Dean tried kicking it down, but with a solid steel handle and frame, they would need an explosive to knock that from its hinges- or at least one of Sam's moose kicks. Dean had his pick out in seconds, carefully inserting the two pins into the handle. He was almost done when a downdraft tore at his clothes and hair, making him look up from his task. All the oxygen was being suctioned from where they stood, like a vortex. They watched as dust and small debris were sucked down into the dark and seemingly infinite staircase beneath their platform. A familiar whooshing sound made Dean start to sweat. _Oh god_, he thought. Dean had been in enough explosions to know that sound when he heard it. He was so close, the picks were almost there. This was a damn good tumbler, but he was better.

He felt the last pin slide open, but too late. The fireball swarmed up in a cloud of flame and fury, hell, chasing after them. The heat was unbearable, the force of the blast even greater. Bobby and Dean were thrown through the now open door. The fire chased them in, only growing in its new found space. Dean lay on his back, in pain, but otherwise fine. All in a matter of seconds, He was up and dragging Bobby to a corner. The old man was dazed, but overall in good condition. They took in their surroundings, looking desperately for an escape route as the flames only grew higher. The whole room was ablaze. The noise was deafening, the heat unreal.

Dean's eyes grew frantic as his brain started spinning. Memories were flowing out: **Hell,** all those years, in the flames, burning. The smell of his own flesh melting off his bones. He couldn't die in hell. The pain just kept going. Forever. The heat. The power. The Fear.

These flames, all they did was turn up memories. Memories he had tried so hard to forget. Hell was…Hell…

"DEAN!" Bobby's yell snapped him back to reality. He saw his friend's panicked face illuminated in the orange glow of the room. The flames lapped closer to them like waves on a beach.

All the air was gone out of the room, replaced only by smoke and dry heat that burned Dean's throat and eyes. They were coughing now, and it wouldn't be long before they couldn't breathe at all.

"_Cough-cough_, WE GOTTA GET OUTTA HERE!" Dean yelled over the crackling flames.

Bobby nodded, then swiveled his head to look again for any possible route. The both didn't want to admit it. They didn't want to say it. The moment they thought it, it would be true.

_We are going to die in here. _

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Sam was dying. He was dying slowly and painfully. At least, that's what it felt like.

"Ugggggghhhhh…" he groaned, trying to roll over onto his side, stopped by a fresh wave of pain and nausea. "Worst…hangover…ever…" His head was pounding more than usual. His chest was being assaulted by a little army of construction workers, digging shovels and screwdrivers through is abdomen. All in all, a pretty shitty Monday.

"Dean?" He croaked, eyes still closed. His brother needed to bring the trash can over here now, or the motel manager was going to have to replace the carpet…actually, when you think about it, that might be a good thing. Sam waited. He waited for the familiar shift of weight as his brother sat on the bed. He waited for Dean's gravelly morning voice to tell him to stop being such a baby. He waited for the cool rag to be placed lovingly on his forehead when Dean thought he was asleep again. But nothing came.

"Dean? Man, are you even there?" Sam opened his eyes slightly, moaning when the bright lights pierced his pupils and set his headache onto the next rung of the pain ladder. He grudgingly looked around, seeing no signs that Dean or Bobby was there. Sam felt his heart begin to speed up.

His now alert eyes flicked to the table where Bobby's sac should be. He didn't even go to the bathroom without that thing. Sure enough, the bag and all the guns were gun. Sam reached behind himself and dug under his pillow, despite the protests from his shoulder. He was calmed slightly when he felt the cold steel of his pistol. Still, he knew that Bobby and Dean were out hunting this thing, and damned if he was just going to sit here and let them have all the fun.

Sam carefully sat up, trying his hardest to ignore the pain. God, he hadn't remembered it ever feeling this bad. He had a really high pain threshold, but this was definitely a seven. He was barely vertical, supporting himself with the bedside table, but barely vertical was good enough. He carefully slipped into jeans, tossing his sweatpants into a corner. He glared at his reflection in the mirror, embarrassed at what he saw. He was haggard, drawn, and needed a shave. His chest was purple and blue with bandages covering at least two-thirds of his ribcage. He sighed, and clenched his teeth, preparing for an onslaught of ouch. Grabbing the ace bandages off the bathroom sink, he taped one end to his lower hip and began to wrap, squeezing tighter and tighter. His chest was in flames, his neck muscles bulging at the effort of not screaming in agony. WHY DID THIS HURT SO MUCH!? He wrapped all the way up, using most of his energy and all of his will power. Thoroughly cushioned and sturdy, he took a deep breath, slightly relieved when the bandage stayed firmly in place, even helping his ribs move with less discomfort.

Sam stepped carefully into the kitchen, making sure he wouldn't fall. After pacing for several minutes, his legs began to feel less like jelly, but his feet were sore, simply from walking for five minutes. "OK," he said aloud this time. "Something is definitely wrong with me." He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. It was then that he noticed the scrap of notebook paper sitting next to the fridge. In Dean's sprawled out handwriting, Sam read:

**1224 Ignis Street**

Dean always left him a phone number or an address whenever they were separated like this. Sam smiled, knowing that Dean knew him so well. He knew that if Sam woke up, he would want in. And despite wanting his baby brother to rest, Dean would want Sam not to be alone without any way of finding him. Especially after Nancy Drew stole his Blackberry.

He stepped outside, soothed by the crisp air that whisked around him, tugging on his jacket and pulling his locks in front of his eyes. He loped down the sidewalk to the intersection, stopping every couple feet to take a breath. This was going to be a bit harder than he thought. He stretched out his arm, pain ricocheting through his rotator cuff and down to his hip. He gasped, and let his arm drop after the cab he was hailing pulled to a stop.

"Where to?" the cabby asked.

Sam stepped gingerly into the cab, suddenly aware of how much he was hurting. Through clenched teeth, he recited the address. The cabby gave him a funny look, and then shrugged. He saw a lot of weirdos in his job, so what if he wanted to go to the old factory; it wasn't any of his business.

Sam wasn't surprised when the yellow cab pulled to a stop in front of a desolate brick building. It wasn't as if monsters lived inside a Martha Stewart magazine.

He swung his leg out, grimacing as his foot made contact with the curb. His toes throbbed through his boots. Throwing the cabby a fifty, he grunted, "Keep the change." He waited until the cab driver was out of sight before turning around and inspecting the building. Old, crappy, and certainly not charming. Still, the brick, the boarded windows… if Sam were a monster, this would do fine.

He had one foot in the entrance when he paused. The feeling, the same one he had had at the library, was haunting him again. His instinctual mind told him run. His Winchester mind told him to draw. He turned slowly to the left, glaring into the darker corner of the first floor. He sucked in a breath.

There. There they were. A pair of ruby eyes, glaring at him with hatred and hunger. It stalked towards him, mouth open, and claws like razors out in front of his body, ready to pounce. To kill.

Sam's hand flew to his waistband, fingers closing tightly around the gun. This time, he wasn't going to get knocked flat on his ass. The monster made no move to attack, simply swaying side to side. Sam was puzzled, but never lowered his gun.

Then, much to Sam's shock and horror, the monster began…Laughing. Laughing was the only word he could use to describe it: a monotone of gravelly nails on a chalkboard. Sam drew his eyebrows together. _What the hell?_

Too late, Sam realized. The monsters hand was on a fuel tank, a large metal cylinder the size of a couch, with pipes that ran through the ceiling and probably through every room in the building. Sam's cry was drowned out as the Aswang's razor sharp claws ripped through the metal like butter, sending fumes into the room.

The Aswang drew in a deep breath and roared, spitting fire. Sam was beyond shocked. He didn't even know it could do that. He barely had time to register the sound of a door shutting and locking behind him when the gas in the room ignited. He was blown backwards, helpless to the pain, as flames crawled up his clothes. He couldn't scream, couldn't stop the fire. In less than a second, all this had occurred. In less than a second, Sam knew.

_I am going to die in here._

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**Please review! Pretty Please! If you do, Sam and Dean and Bobby will live (for now, hehe) because a magical unicorn will come down from Chuck (God, in case you didn't know) and save them from the fire and kill the nasty monster! Yay! The end!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey guys, I don't usually write pre-chapter things, so pay attention! Ha-ha, nah, it's not that important. I just really wanted to say sorry for not having this chapter out sooner. I got caught up in not having a social life because of all the busy, super-involved and time consuming stuff that I do. So, anyway, here is chapter 6! ENJOY!**

**PREVIOUSLY:**

"_Cough-cough_, WE GOTTA GET OUTTA HERE!" Dean yelled over the crackling flames.

Bobby nodded, then swiveled his head to look again for any possible route. The both didn't want to admit it. They didn't want to say it. The moment they thought it, it would be true.

_We are going to die in here. _

…

The Aswang drew in a deep breath and roared, spitting fire. Sam was beyond shocked. He didn't even know it could do that. He barely had time to register the sound of a door shutting and locking behind him when the gas in the room ignited. He was blown backwards, helpless to the pain, as flames crawled up his clothes. He couldn't scream, couldn't stop the fire. In less than a second, all this had occurred. In less than a second, Sam knew.

_I am going to die in here._

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He watched them enter the building, the old man and the young man entering first. Then, he watched the tall dazed one enter, not five minutes after his friends.

The man on the rooftop sighed. He knew the Winchesters so well, and he could expect this stupidity from them, but Bobby? Bobby should know better than this.

The man on the roof sighed again. The boys thought he was off on his search for "Celestial Nukes" as Dean referred to them. He was very close to the one he had been searching for, but it could wait. He had sensed something was wrong, that his friends were in danger.

Friends. It was such a strange word on the man's tongue. But he liked it. He found a strange connection to the Winchester boys. He realized some time ago that his bond for them was deeper than he had thought.

He pulled his brow into a concentrated expression. Very pensive, as usual, he wondered how it was that Dean thought him inconsiderate. Didn't Dean Winchester understand? He drops everything for Dean, time after time, to swoop in and save him from whatever peril they had placed themselves in on that particular day.

The man on the rooftop stood silently, watching the events unfold. Sam should not have entered the building alone, not to mention that he was quite unwell. The Man on the roof alone understood the capabilities of this monster. It was old, almost as old as him, raised from the hell of a different god. Its powers had greatly diminished since the destruction of its religion (after Michael made the Spanish invade the Philippines. Everyone knew it wouldn't end well, but Michael, ever the good little soldier, had listened to their father. Why? Free will was challenging, yes, but surely even angels know right from wrong _**sometimes!**__)_ .

Still, The Aswang could squash Sam and Dean like bugs on a windshield. He was surprised it hadn't already killed them. Then again, one can only assume that after several millennia of having no competition, it would begin to play with its food.

After sensing a disturbance from inside the building the man snapped his head-now alert. His crystalline blue eyes pierced the obstructive brick walls. He could see it clearly. Monster, outstretched claws advancing. Bobby and Dean were halfway up the staircase, unsuspecting of the fate that was about to befall Sam. Castiel felt sympathy for Sam as the Aswang started spewing his molten venom. His empathy was surprising, but even Angels could burn to death and it was quite unpleasant, so he was told. The man straightened his shoulders. He supposed that a good friend would try to rescue their other friend from such a situation.

He clenched his fists and flew.

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Sam still couldn't breathe, he felt himself slipping from consciousness faster than he ever had before. No air, no movement, simply pain. It seemed as though he had been on fire for years, decades, centuries. In truth, he knew it had been for mere seconds. The pain made it impossible to think. Impossible to comprehend. Impossible to die. He couldn't just drift off into the serenity of death. The pain wouldn't let him. God, how he wanted to die.

Sam's eyes remained open, his mouth floundering, his clothes burning around him. The smell of his own burning flesh assaulted his nostrils, but he didn't care anymore. He knew his skin was bubbling and cracking, that he was boiling inside his own meat suit. That's why he made no attempt to think about anything when he saw the man approach. He couldn't think about who it was. All Sam saw was the hand, smooth and calm, reach out to him through the flames. The hand was on his forehead. Then everything went white.

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Sam was on the ground outside. The feeling of the wet, cold pavement on his previously burning skin was ineffable. He wanted to cry, to laugh, to scream.

"I'm dead." He said aloud, even and restrained, but weeping on the inside. "I must be dead." He had to go back, to save Dean and Bobby. He had to help his brother. He can't die. Not yet. He felt a tear escape his eye, then another one. "Well," his lip quivered slightly. "I suppose I got what I asked for."

Then, all the pain, the struggle, the fear, and the loss-he let it all go. A quiet, steady trail of salt water flowed from his eyes. He was so lost in his own thoughts he jumped when a deep raspy voice sounded next to him.

"No Sam. You are, fortunately, still among the living percentage of humans."

"CAS!" Sam cried, jumping up to embrace the angel. His dirty trench coat smelled of ash and gasoline, and his tie was crooked as ever, but there he was. "Where have you been, man? Are you ok?" Sam gave him a once over. He looked good, actually. Powerful, calm, and impressively well put together for a guy fighting a civil war.

"I am quite well, thank you. Are you feeling much improved?" His eyes were sincere, but Sam laughed. The way he spoke was so serious and formal; you really can't help but laugh when Cas attempts small talk.

"Yah, man. I think I'm ok."

Sam looked at himself. His clothes had scorch holes in them. His skin, previously crackling and melting, was fully repaired. All in all, he wasn't dead, nor was he dying. "Yah," he said humbly, repeating it really to assure himself. "I'm ok. I'm ok!" His moose arms pulled the angel in for another stiff bro-hug. "Thank you Cas. Thank you for saving me."

The angel gave Sam a small smile, awkward without a doubt, but a smile nonetheless. "No trouble at all. But you are very welcome." He paused, looking up to the fourth floor that was still very much ablaze. "If you would excuse me," he directed to Sam. "I believe that your brother and Bobby now require my assistance." He spread his wings, invisible of course to Sam, and took off.

"Damn," Sam muttered to himself. No matter how many times he did it, Sam was always a little taken aback when Cas disappeared like that. He shook it off, glancing up to the smoke pouring out of the windows where his brother was. What if he was hurt? What if he was injured? What if…

No. they are ok. They are both ok. Sam would never forgive himself if ….

"NO!" he accidentally scolded aloud. Sam mentally slapped himself. Cas was on his way, and Cas could save them. Everything would be ok. Everything was fine.

He would just have to keep telling himself that.

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Smoke was everywhere. It was burning into his lungs, searing his throat. He couldn't even cough anymore. He could feel it, the oxygen deprivation, ravaging his sense. Everything was so dark, yet so vibrant. His vision almost had a pulse, went it wasn't obscured by smoke-induced tears. Dean swung an arm out and grabbed Bobby's collar. He clung to it for a minute, just feeling another life beside him. He patted Bobby's shoulder, then let go. Bobby responded with an equal gesture. And there they sat. Dean didn't want to die, but it looked inevitable.

Then again, the apocalypse had been inevitable, too.

With a stubbornness and resolve found only in the sons of John Winchester, Dean hauled himself up, using the wall for support. The smoke was thicker up here, but he was content with holding his breath. After all, dying was dying. Don't matter which way you go. Bobby followed him with his eyes, his glossy expression full of emotion. Dean shuffled and tripped his way over to the opposite side of the room. The smoke made it impossible to see anything five inches in front of his face.

He couldn't see.

He couldn't hear.

He couldn't breathe.

That's why he didn't notice when the Aswang walked up behind him, eyes glowing pus yellow and blood red. Its teeth were bared. It claws outstretched. It hauled back its head, ready to shower the older Winchester in molten venom. Ready to watch him burn, skin bubbling and crackling as his screams of agony were replaced by dying gargles. His own blood would boil him alive from the inside out. The creature took pleasure in knowing the human would die painfully. It drew in a breath, feeling the heat building in its throat.

That's when Dean Winchester turned around.

"AGHH!" Releasing the last of his air, Dean let out a yell. He barely avoided the bright yellow fireball that whizzed past his head. Flames scorched higher, the beast lumbered towards him, its moist, squishing exoskeleton sweating and steaming in the suffocating blaze. Dean crashed over desks, ran through piles of junk and broken parts to machines. He tripped over a pipe, sending his aching body sprawling on the ground. Still, he shuffled under the smoke, crawling marine style over to Bobby. The air down there was cleaner, and he even managed a few burning breaths.

"BOBBY!" he managed without erupting into wracking heaves. Bobby rolled his head to one side, looking Dean in the face. Bobby was still breathing; they both were, just not for much longer. Dean motioned for him to follow. Together, they crawled away from the romping and screeching of the Aswang who, despite its fire capabilities, was just as smoke-blind as the rest of them. It let out another horrific cry of frustration, the blood-curdling nails on chalkboard sound Dean had heard over the phone. Despite the intense heat, he shuddered.

They continued crawling across the huge warehouse floor. They would stop every couple seconds to put their faces straight down into the concrete to breathe. They wouldn't be able to go much longer. They were nearing a wall when Bobby stopped. "Bobby," Dean gasped. "I…I know, old man…but…_cough_…we gotta keep…going. _Cough_…Please just another-"

"Aw, shut up, idjit. I –_cough_-ain't that outta-_cough_-shape." Despite the burning in Dean's throat, he gave a raspy laugh.

"Well…then what's up? _Cough_- that thing will find us if we don't-_cough_-keep moving!"

Bobby deep in a deep breath, surprised at how fresh it tasted. He took in another, relishing in the oxygen that calmed his scorched lungs. "Boy!" he said, louder and stronger this time. "Take a deep breath, tell me what you think."

Dean was confused, but sucked in air. "It. Tastes. Cleaner?" he suggested. They both nodded.

"Boy, scurry up close to this wall. Maybe there's a door or a window." They quickened their pace. They could hear the monster getting closer, the crunching and wet grinding sound of its vertebrae resounding in their ears. They found the joint where the floor met the wall. The concrete here was cooler, and the air was actual air. They both rolled onto their backs, gratefully taking in the gulps of sweet oxygen. Dean raised his hands above his head on the floor in triumph, jumping when they made contact with very cold, smooth steel. He opened his eyes and stared. Elevator Doors. He watched the smoke drafting down through the bottom of the sliding panels.

"Bobby!" he exclaimed. "I found a way out!"

The old hunter was immediately at his side, helping him to pry the doors apart. The monster was closing gin on them. By the sounds of his gruff breathing and claws skidding on the floor, they were within fifty feet of each other. The whole warehouse floor was the size of a football field, maybe more.

Dean and Bobby were inches away from having the opening big enough. They pulled with all their strength, Dean's back muscles rippling with the effort. Finally, the rusted doors squeaked open to about two feet. Dean hung his head over the edge, taking in the darkness of the empty elevator shaft. They rails and handholds would be easy for the two men to climb down. Empty car wires hung from overhead. Chains swung from the walls and smoke traveled freely up the shaft. Dean squeezed his body through the narrow opening with ease. He held onto a support bar in the brick and smiled up at Bobby, who was scratching his head and glaring at the two foot opening they had created.

"Bet you wished you had that Stairmaster, now, huh?"

"Shut up, idjit. I'll slap you."

"You have to reach me first." The old man swore under his breath and Dean let out a tense laugh. They both were trying to hide how nervous they were. The monsters heavy steps were closer now. It could probably smell them over the smoke.

"C'mon, Bobby." Dean called, more tense this time.

"Dammit, boy, I wish I could." Bobby was squeezing himself through with every muscle in his body rigid. He was sucking everything in as hard as he could. Still, he needed that extra six inches.

The monster let out a bloody howl, making Dean and Bobby go wide eyed. It was upon them now, closing in. Ten feet…Six feet…

"Bobby!" Dean reached out his hand as the monster swung itself full force into the elevator doors. Bobby would have been crushed to death if he hadn't sidestepped at the last possible moment. The Aswang rammed the doors, crumpling them like a cheap bumper. As it turned, dazed, Bobby quickly slipped through the now wider opening. He had his lower body over the edge of the precipice when the monster turned, howling bloody murder. The beast drew its head back, fire swimming in the depths of its throat.

"JUMP, BOBBY!" Dean cried, extending one hand, his other arm wrapped around a chain hanging from the ceiling. Without even thinking, Bobby leapt backwards, hoping and praying that Dean would catch him.

But you can always trust a Winchester.

Bobby collided into a suspended Dean with a force that Dean wasn't expecting. A fireball shot through the air right over their heads, singing Dean's hair and Bobby's hat. Dean wrapped his free arm around Bobby's torso. Bobby clung to him, trying to find the wall. The chain bit into Dean's Left arm tighter and tighter. He suppressed a scream. The only way they were going to get down is if Dean lowered them.

"Bobby!" Dean shouted over the cries of the Aswang and the explosions in the background. "Bobby, give me all your weight!" His arm was bleeding now, the chain ripping his skin. God, this was gonna hurt.

Bobby took his foot off the wall and hung limply from Dean's torso. The chain ripped and tore at his arm, and finally….

CRACK!

Dean let out an agonizing scream, tears welling up in his eyes, and not from the smoke. Nothing could have prepared him for the unadulterated pain he was experiencing. He gasped, choking on his own muted screams. His left arm was ensnared in the rusted metal, its bone sticking out in three different places after it finally gave under the pressure. His muscles were being torn apart, inch by inch, as the weight snapped his ligaments into pieces. He was seeing spots, and he couldn't think anymore, he couldn't even breathe. But he refused to let go. He refused.

Dean hung onto Bobby, letting the chain slide through his fingers with control. He was completely enthralled in the pain, now. The burn the chain was leaving hand was simply a single note in the symphony of agony that pulsated from his fingers to his shoulder. The heat radiating from his arm was almost equal to the fireballs still blasting twenty feet above their heads. Dean was practically down for the count, his eyes swimming and bile rolling in his stomach. He just kept letting the chain pass through his bloody fingers, the ride becoming easier as Dean's blood greased their travel. He could hear Bobby calling his name, telling him to slow down. He didn't, couldn't, listen. Dean could feel the air getting colder. He knew that they were sliding down quicker now- now, as he lost consciousness. He just didn't care. Dean wasn't sure how long he had been sliding down this chain. All he knew is that it needed to stop. He almost cried when he felt Bobby's weight taken off his arm as the old man's boots touched the wet basement floor. Bobby was lowering him to the ground now, placing Dean's wounded arm carefully parallel on the cold cement. He was yelling g his name, trying to snap him back to reality. Dean was burned, bloody, beaten, and goddamned broken. All he wanted to do was sleep. His eyes were closed, his brain was turning off, and he honestly didn't care if he was falling asleep or dying. Dying would definitely be easier.

Dean was nearly gone- nearly done. Then, a familiar gruff voice other than Bobby's boomed in his ears.

"Do not fret," The voice said. "I will heal him." Dean was confused. It sounded almost like-

A fresh wave of nausea washed over him, interrupting his thoughts and causing vomit to rise from his stomach into his mouth. He was choking on it, gasping for air as the acid tore at his already raw throat. Someone kindly rolled him onto his back, allowing the vomit to spill out around him. He sputtered and cried, enveloped in agony every which way he moved.

A cool hand was placed on his forehead, comfortable and clean. It smelled of old spice and freshly mowed grass, not at all like the smoke and blood that had been assaulting Dean's sense for the last several minutes. The hand brushed its way down Dean's face and rested on his shoulder. Fingers pressed down into his rotator cuff, causing a mewling sound to escape Dean's lips. The pain. It was everywhere.

The fingers spread apart, and the hand tensed. Suddenly, thousands of electric tingles coursed through Dean's body at once. Dean's eyes shot open and he gasped, writhing on the floor. His arm was snapping and cracking back into place, all in milliseconds, but to him it seemed much slower. His eyes rolled in his head, and finally, his brain decided he could take no more. He let the darkness capture him, pulling him under like a sailor drowning at sea.

A typical Winchester Monday.

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PLEASE REVIEW! :D if you do, I will write a whole chapter on the way Dean's muscles ripple in the sunlight when he is sweaty and fighting bad guys and drinking beer and laughing and driving the Impala! PLEASE REVIEW! You will totally make my day :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey, I know, two pre-story shout outs in a row. Please forgive my obstructiveness! **** ! I just wanted to really thank ****sammynanci**** and ****jack62192**** for their continuously awesome reviews, not to mention all the guests who reviewed as well. They are all getting cookies. Everybody else, I'm sorry, but no. You missed your chance. Haha, but redeem yourselves this chapter! If I don't get enough reviews, I will never ever finish this story and then I will cry. Don't make me cry.**

**Anyway, as the great Monty Python creators say…**

**GET ON WITH IT!**

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**PREVIOUSLY:**

Dean's eyes shot open and he gasped, writhing on the floor. His arm was snapping and cracking back into place, all in milliseconds, but to him it seemed much slower. His eyes rolled in his head, nerves writhing and spasming in agony.

Finally, his brain decided he could take no more. He let the darkness capture him, pulling him under like a sailor drowning at sea.

A typical Winchester Monday.

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Sam watched his brother sleep. Dean's breaths were deep and calm now, the pain dissolved from his features. Sam leaned back in his chair, settling in. He wouldn't leave this bedside. He brought a calloused hand up to rub the bridge of his nose. He was exhausted, but there was no way he was going to fall asleep. Dean looked so helpless, so drawn, he couldn't stand it. He scanned the room, ever alert, triple checking to make sure everything was all right. Bobby sat in the corner, snoring loudly, an empty scotch bottle by his side. Cas had stayed long enough to zap them all back to the motel room. He had helped Sam support Dean and carry him onto the bed. After that, he had vanished.

Sam sighed, shifting his position on the old chair. His eyelids were heavy, and his head started bobbing. He shook himself, sitting up and clearing his throat. He tried to make himself uncomfortable, which wasn't hard considering his massive shoulders were twice as wide as the back of the chair. Still, his body was worn out, and Sam found himself drifting.

The moment he shut his eyes, he was back at the warehouse. Smoke poured from the windows, and he could hear his heartbeat quicken.

'_Where are they?'_ he searched frantically, feeling helpless. '_Cas should have been out by now! Something's wrong.'_

He was running, as he had before, around the building, looking for them, for anyone. 'DEAN!' he shouted.

Sam doubled back to where he and Cas had been before. 'CASTIEL!?" he called desperately. This was taking too long. Cas just needed to find them and bring them back out. Where were they!? Sam punched the trash can.

Everything was surreal in his dream state. The sky was a menacing purple, and the whole thing was blurry. He couldn't run fast enough, his legs wouldn't work. His eyes were closed, and then open again. The smoke was grabbing at his clothing, pushing him closer to the fire. He needed his brother. He needed Dean.

Sam knew he was dreaming, but felt totally out of control. Usually, when he had nightmares, he could fend for himself; try to control the course of action. But this? This was just a replay, and it was haunting him.

Sam looked up at the top floors, expecting to see, as he had that day, nothing but thick black smoke seeping form the building like pus from a wound. But this time, what he saw was thick, red liquid, oozing and cascading down the brick- Blood, seeping from every crack, every window. He watched in horror, legs unable to move or to help, as his brother's body, bloody and mangled, appeared before him. Dean sat up, his face a mess of flesh and blood, metal scraps slicing through his skull. Dean's bloodshot eyes were bulging, oozing their way out of his head.

"WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME, SAM?" he glared at Sam, menacing. Red strands of bloody flesh and drool spewed from his mouth with every word. Sam wanted to vomit and run away, but he couldn't. He was cemented in place. All he could do was suffer through it. God, how he was suffering...

"Dean! I'm so sorry! Please, Dean. Please! I didn't-" Sam couldn't speak, he was too quiet, his throat unable to function. Everything was bloody and smelled like burning flesh.

"THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT SAM. YOU KILLED MOM. YOU KILLED DAD. YOU KILLED JESSICA. YOU KILLED ME." Dean's ghastly face was inches away, screaming, yelling, accusing. Sam could feel himself deflating. He was begging now.

"Please…Dean…I love you…please…no…I didn't ever…no, Dean…God, please…you're my brother…Dean…" Tears were pouring down his face, his heart literally in pain. His chest and throat were burning. Sam felt the weight of the world crashing down on him. Never had he felt so alone, so useless, so much of a monster. He screamed into the fire. He begged for forgiveness, he bawled for it. He was so sorry, so guilty. Dean just laughed- just laughed and bled. Dean's face was melting now, and his sickening laughter turned into agonized shrieks.

"WHY, SAM? WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME?! WHY?"

"DEAN! G-GOD PLEASE! D-DEAN I AM S-SO SORRY!" Sam couldn't speak or breathe through the tears. The nightmare was so real, the fire actually started to burn him. He felt the heat on his skin. The guilt crashed into him like waves. The flames stole the air from the room, and his breaths came shallower and shallower.

Dean's melting and gurgling shrieks pushed him into a state of panic he hadn't known existed. Sam began hyperventilating, tears streaming down his burning face and eyes rolling wildly around in his skull. The pain in his chest was agonizing, and streams of fire danced up and down his left arm. He stopped being able to think, to act. He just sat there, in a puddle of his brother's blood, weeping. He wanted to die.

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Dean actually felt pretty good, all things considered. Sure he was a little sore, and man did he have to take a wiz, but everything was fine. He would be up and ready to go in a few hours to get going on Plan B for Operation Monster Mash. But for right now, he was content in his dreams.

Man, was he content.

The two lovely ladies on the poles were blowing him kisses and working what God (Thank you, Chuck!) gave them. Dean was especially fond of the one on the right with the little black lace strap that barely qualified as underwear. She was strutting towards him now. Oh, this was gonna be good. She leaned into him, lips over his in a second. He grinned under her sexy kisses. "Hey there, Big Daddy." She crooned, playing with his hair. She stretched one leg over his lap, straddling him firmly. She spread her long fingers over his chest, rubbing and caressing his firm torso. She smiled biting her lip.

Dean huffed under his breath. "Oh thank God for daddy issues."

He tilted his head back, that trademark grin splitting his face from ear to ear. Dean let out a deep sultry laugh, cut short by a sharp breath.

"Wo-hoo, there, girly...Jesus Mary and Joseph!" He gasped. Whoa. Best. Dream. Ever.

She was sliding her hand down, down, down, down, teasing, grabbing, rubbing, until finally she grabbed onto his-

"Dean."

"HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!" Dean shot up, humiliated and fuming as his dream vanished around him in a cloud of mist. The Van Halen that had been pounding in the background faded into the background of his mind. Castiel stood there in his signature trench coat, staring obliviously at the red and flustered expression on Dean's face.

"Dean, you-"

Dean put his hand up, silencing the angel. "Dammit, Cas! What have I told you about personal space? And privacy! My dream, my rules. Get out." He sighed. "I was having a very interesting…conversation with that girl until you decided to …" he made an allover gesture with his hands, "…Pop in!"

Dean sighed. "Please, Cas, all I'm asking for is a little time to myself, comprende?"

"Yes, Dean I understand. And under any different circumstances I would gladly comply, but Sam-"

Dean closed the distance between them in a second. "Sam? Why? What's wrong with Sam?"

"The Aswang is still very much in control over him, and your brother is currently having another attack, which is why I entered your subconscious reverie to inform you that it is, in fact, time to wake up."

And with that, Castiel extended his hand to Dean's forehead, and playtime was over.

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"Dammit, boy! Talk to me! Son of a bitch!" Bobby was over Sam, now, who was writhing on the floor. His heartbeat was erratic and his breathing coming in short spurts. Bobby was pinning him down, trying to make sure he didn't hurt himself.

Bobby had been dozing lightly on the loveseat when bloodcurdling screams had launched him upright. He had jumped around, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Sam had been on the floor, crying and screaming. Bobby rushed over to him, trying to calm him down.

"DEAN!" he was screaming. "DEAN! PLEASE! I'M SO SORRY! GOD, NO!"

"Sam! Your brother's fine! Dean's fine! It's ok! Relax, boy! Wake up!"

But Sam couldn't hear him. Sam had started to hyperventilate, his heart beating out of rhythm and his eyes dilating. Bobby had seen hunters have panic attacks before, but this was bad. Really bad. He was going into full cardiac arrest. They were losing him.

"DAMMIT!" Bobby had grabbed a paper bag and tried to force Sam to breathe in and out, but he was barely even conscious. Sam just kept crying and yelling for forgiveness, Bobby could feel the pain and guilt in his sobs, and it brought tears to the old man's eyes. It must still be the Aswang. This thing was torturing him now, in the cruelest way possible.

"DEAN! PLEASE!" Sam was writhing and weeping, deep long cries that cut through Bobby's soul. He tried again desperately to wake him up, to tell him that everything was ok. But nothing could cut through Sam's veil. This thing was going to kill him from the inside out, and there was nothing anyone could do.

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Dean woke abruptly to the sound of his brother's desperate, pleading shrieks. Forgetting his exhaustion and his soreness, he threw the covers back and ran to his brother who lay miserably on the floor.

"Bobby!" He yelled over the wails. "What the hell is going on!?"

Bobby's relief at seeing Dean up and about was very short-lived. The eldest Winchester wasn't even trying to mask his frantic expression. Sam let out one last short, pitiful cry and then stopped. His eyes widened, and his shoulders gave one last violent shudder before going lax. Bobby and Dean exchanged wide-eyed looks before both men started shouting in Sam's face.

"SAM?" Dean slapped Sam in the face. "WAKE THE HELL UP, YOU OVERSIZED BASTARD!" Dean shook his brother's shoulders violently, praying for a response. None.

Bobby had one hand on Sam's jugular, searching desperately for a pulse and not finding one. "Sam!" he yelled. Sam's eyes were unseeing, his expression unchanging.

Bobby was sitting back now, one hand still protectively on the boys chest. Bobby was shaking a bit, thoughts running rapidly through his mind. Sam was gone. Sammy, one of the boys he had practically raised, was gone.

Dean was still yelling frantically for his brother, but his eyes were wet, too. "SAM!" he continued. His brother still lay there unresponsive, his breathing stopped.

"SAM!" he cradled his brother's face between his hand, slapping each cheek.

"Sam?" Dean leaned back, removing his shaking hands from his brother's body, unable to touch his cooling skin. The world was crashing around him, a vortex sounded in his ears.

"Sammy..."

He had failed his little brother, his baby brother who always depended upon him. All the memories, the hunts, the good and bad times. All the birthdays that Dean would celebrate for him, the shitty cakes he would try to bake, the presents he would steal. He only did it for the expression, that temporary look of innocence, when Sam's goofy smile would light up his whole face.

Now, Sam's face was still. His smile gone, his skin pale.

The fireworks Dean bought for the Fourth of July that one year, the Legos that he let Sam shove down the vent in the Impala; it was just to make Sam happy…to show him. To show him how much he was loved...

...Ssomething he couldn't tell him anymore.

Dean realized at that moment that he had never actually told Sam that he loved him, and that he was the greatest little brother in the whole world. He needed Sam to know that. Sam needed to know how much he loved him.

And that son of a bitch was going to hear it whether he liked it or not.

Dean's pained expression became one of complete determination, of unadulterated rage and instinctual drive. He punched the wall, splitting his knuckles and bleeding on the shit carpet. He cradled Sam for a split second, and then lowered him back onto the ground.

"Not good enough. Not goddamned good enough, Sammy." He adjusted Sam's airway and began chest compressions.

"Come on, you fuckin' sasquatch." He huffed between beats.

"27….28…29…30." He stopped, and delivered two rescue breaths. No way was he telling Sam that he gave him mouth to mouth. They would never be able to look at each other again.

"You are not going to die. Not today." He grunted. "Not tomorrow." Another compression. "Not ever."

"Bobby! Dammit, call 9-1-1." Bobby snapped out of his daze and picked up the phone. Dean could hear the hurried conversation in the background, but didn't care.

"27…28…29…30." Two more rescue breaths. Dean stopped, checking for a pulse or breathing. He found none, but knew not to stop. "Here we go again." Dean repositioned his hands and kept going.

Dean was so focused he didn't even notice the EMTs rushing into the motel room. When they tried to move him away from Sam, he flailed and fought, catching one square in the jaw. It took, two of them plus Bobby to drag him away and keep him calm. They checked Sam and continued compression, loading him onto the stretcher. They ripped his battered plaid shirt off and charged the paddles. Everything happened in a blur, and to Dean the whole scene was fuzzy. "Clear!" he heard far off in the distance. Dean didn't even register Bobby's warm hand on his back, trying in vain to reassure him. "Clear!" Dean's hand slid down into his pocket, fingers brushing against a piece of frayed string and a worn metallic charm, one Sam had given him many, many years ago. Sam thought he had thrown it out, but how could he? Of course Dean went back for it. It was his Christmas present…

The EMT was standing in front of him, waving a hand in front of his face. "Sir? Sir will you be riding with him? Sir?" he sounded so far away, so out of focus. "Sir? Sir, are you going into shock? Sir?" He felt a pair of gloved hands grab his shoulders and force him into a sitting position on the bed. They shone a flashlight into his eyes. It was annoying, and he didn't have time for them to be fussing over him. Dean swatted their hands away and tried to tell them to focus on his brother. They wouldn't listen. Instead the two men kept poking and prodding him. Now, Dean was not in a good mood presently, and he very kindly knocked the two men against the wall in an effort to get to his brother. He followed the EMTs out to the ambulance and climbed into the back with them. They told him to leave and ride in a separate car to the hospital, that he was in no condition to ride with them, but Dean gave them a glare that made their blood freeze.

So, let's just say they all had a change of heart and let him come along for the ride.

Dean never took his eyes of his brother. The medics kept working on him, with no response. Dean could hear the driver radio them into the hospital.

"_Pzzzt…I've got one Caucasian male, approximately six foot four inches, weighing roughly 200 pounds…pzzzt…massive coronary, unresponsive."_

"Dammit, Sammy," Dean kept his fingers locked together, elbows on his knees, staring intently on the lifeless form that was his brother. The AED was leaving angry red welts on his chest, and the EMTs were giving each other quick looks, but not once did they stop working on him. Dean wouldn't have let them stop anyway.

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Finally, they arrived at the hospital. "It's about damn time," Dean mumbled aloud. He ran the whole stretch of the hall behind the gurney until the nurses had to tell him to stop.

"Sir," she tried at first kindly with a hint of firmness. He easily brushed past her. She hustled, calling to him as he moved. "Sir? Sir!" Dean ignored her, jogging to keep up with the gurney. "SIR!" the young blonde managed to get in front of him and place both hands on his chest, keeping him from entering the adjoining hallway. Hell, Dean was ready to throw on a surgical mask and invade the OR.

In the end, security had to be called to convince the Winchester to sit calmly in the waiting room. When Dean finally took a seat, he couldn't keep still at all. His hands were shaking and he bounced his legs up and down. He bent his head continually and rubbed his neck. Every four seconds he would glance at the clock. Where was his brother? Was everything ok? Why was this happening? How the hell coud Sam have a fucking heart attack? The kid was a damn health nut! That monster was gonna get Dean's boot shoved so far up its ass it was gonna taste leather! Dean wanted to grab the thing by the balls and-

"Dean?" Bobby hustled into the waiting room, car keys in hand. "I just parked right outside. Where is he? Where's Sam? Is he gonna be ok? What's going on? Did you talk to a doctor yet? Boy, is he-" a look from Dean sucked the last few words from his throat. It wasn't a hostile or withering glare, simply, the look of defeat.

Dean Winchester looked defeated and pained. That charming glint in his eye was gone, replaced by a dull cold fog. His expression was sad and deflated, his head hanging limply into his hands. "Bobby…I don't know what to do…" He managed to lift his head again long enough to look into the old hunter's eyes. He was searching for something- for anything to give him hope. He saw none.

Bobby fidgeted, uncomfortable and anxious. He had had to comfort Dean once or twice when things got really bad, but he'd never had to do it without bourbon. "Jesus, son…" he trailed off; the only support he could give was a warm, heavy hand on the young man's shoulder. He felt the deep, struggling breaths, every intake more difficult than the last, as he tried to contain his tears. "It's ok, son. Let it go. It's only you, me, and the chairs." And Dean took in one more breath and held it, feeling the tears burning the back of his throat. He was ready to let it flow, to collapse and surrender. He was so ready...but...

"No," he exhaled, shaking himself off and looking at the ceiling, determined not to cry. What would his father say? Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. He knew exactly what his John would say.

He would tell Dean to man up, go get a gun, and kill whatever was pissing him off. And this thing was definitely pissing him off.

Kill it. That's exactly what Dean intended to do, and God be damned if he wasn't gonna do it right this time.

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**PLEASE REVIEW! I know not a lot happened in this chapter, but that's because I needed a transition chapter. Next chapter will be badass, I swear! I will send sneak previews of the next chapter to anyone who sends me a really good review! Haha…maybe. Depends on how good the review is! That and Misha Collins! I will send a Misha Collins to whomever writes the best review!**


	8. Chapter 8

**PREVIOUSLY:**

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. He knew exactly what John would say.

He would tell Dean to man up, go get a gun, and kill whatever was pissing him off. And this thing was definitely pissing him off.

Kill it. That's exactly what Dean intended to do, and God be damned if he wasn't gonna do it right this time.

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Sam's eyelids fluttered open. He yawned, stretching silently. He felt good. Really good. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feet making contact with the linoleum. He was surprised at how comfortably warm the floor was compared to the cold tile he had been expecting. Sam scanned his surroundings: The crisp whiteness, the sterile equipment- definitely a hospital. Sam couldn't exactly say he enjoyed being in hospitals, but he would take this place over a flaming warehouse any day. Besides, as soon as his brother came to pick him up, they would check themselves out and be on their way, as usual. Sam stood up, flexing his legs, which were only partially covered by his too-short patient scrubs. Sigh. They never did seem to have his size.

His single room was the largest single occupancy he'd ever seen in the ER. It was huge- at least 30 by 30, a single bed and high ceilings. Matter of fact, this didn't look like the ER at all. Way too quiet. Maybe he was in a different wing…Sam pressed his face up against the door window and peered out. He saw the sign hanging in the hallway:

_Intensive Care Unit_

He blinked hard. Wow, the ICU? Whatever happened must have been pretty bad. He honestly didn't remember much….

He wondered where Dean was. Usually he was there when Sam woke up. They had a bit of a system. Sam would wake up to see Dean (or vice versa) and they would tell each other which name they were using and what time they were gonna bust out. Not to mention, Dean always made Sam tell him whether or not any of the nurses were "doable" as he so chivalrously put it. Yep, they had this down to a science.

Let's just say that the Winchester boys had visited the ER on more than one occasion.

Sam shrugged it off and walked back into the room, shuffling across the floor. Whatever had happened must have sucked, but he was obviously better now. So, there was certainly no need for this stuff… Hospital equipment lined the walls, along with charts and beeping machines. A large box next to his bed was continuously beeping, its panel separated into 4 frames, each section containing numerous switches and levers. He blinked. It just looked like a bunch of Japanese to him, too many fancy buttons and gismos. He went to play with one of the buttons when a voice behind him made him jump.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Sam." the voice was female- smooth, sad, and oddly familiar. "Well, I wasn't expecting to see you for a while still." She sighed. Sam turned, expecting to see a doctor or nurse. He wanted to get his stuff and go. Dean would need him to help with the hunt.

His knees buckled when he saw who was behind him.

Tessa.

Holy Shit.

"No. No. No. No. No. No…" Sam was backing away. "What the hell are you doing here?" He remembered all those years ago when Dean had been in the hospital, fighting for his life-well, more like _afterlife_. Tessa wasn't exactly an enemy, but she never exactly brought _good_ news.

He must be…no he couldn't be…but he felt fine…but what if…maybe?

"Yes, Sam. You are. And no, Sam, you're not. Yes, this is normal, and yes, I am here to reap you." Tessa stared up at him with those big sad eyes that haunted her face. She never stopped looking gloomy, as if it were a prerequisite for the job. She always looked empathetic, too, like she pitied you and understood how pained you felt.

Frankly, it was pissing Sam off.

"Tessa, what is going on? Why are you here to reap me? I'm not-" He was cut off by a nod of the head. Tessa was gesturing for him to turn around.

Why did he need to turn around?

Oh. That's why.

Sam blinked- his heart racing. Thoughts filled his head in a torrent, swirling around like rapids. He was scrambling to put the pieces together, to make sense of what was going on.

Yah, it wasn't happening. He was in a bit of a clusterfuck.

Tessa walked past him to the figure lying on the bed: pale, drawn, and comatose. She stroked the hair out of the person's eyes. His locks were a familiar brown. The eyebrows were familiar too. The pointy nose and clean cut jaw were eerily similar to Sam's own. But it couldn't be him. It couldn't be.

"You know," Tessa sighed in that remorseful tone of hers. "I was hoping I wouldn't be seeing you boys for a long time. But, who am I to question Fate?"

Sam tried to let out a gruff laugh, but it came out as more of a whining growl. His bravado was fleeting. "Last time I checked, Tessa, Fate was a bitch with a ponytail and a fancy book."

She smiled-sadly, of course. "Well, I know you all had a bit of a falling out with her, but really, she's not that bad. She's rather good company, actually."

"What, did you guys start a quilting club or something? Afternoon tea with the reaper?"

"Sam, Sam, Sam…" She pushed herself off the bedside, not leaving a single crease from where she had sat. She didn't exist in this dimension, and neither did he. The realization made him feel the need to grab something, to prove he was there, if only to himself. But, of course, he couldn't. "You say reaper like it's a bad thing. I'm no different than a hunter, in truth."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"It's true, Sammy. I simply clean up the messes of the world, taking care of what's right and wrong. Scouring the earth for eternity, ridding her of those who no longer belong. Isn't that what you and your brother do?"

Sam swept a hand over his face. He clenched and unclenched his jaw. He couldn't process everything coming at him like this.

She paused taking in his expression. "But that's really not the hot topic of the debate right now, is it…" She placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, the first sensation he'd had since waking up. It felt strange.

Sam cleared his throat, still staring at his body in the bed. He gestured to the room and all its elements, especially the large beeping box. "Yah…so what exactly…is, um, going on…here?"

She appeared suddenly across the room next to the large machine Sam had studied earlier. "Ventricular Assisting Device," She rattled off. "It's a mechanical pump that supports the heart or takes over the heart's pumping action. They're used when the heart can't pump enough blood to support the body." She paused, gauging Sam's shaky hands and bleary eyes. This wasn't going very well.

She tried to make her voice more comforting-a little bit softer. "A patient may need a VAD if he or she has heart failure or is waiting for a heart transplant. A VAD can be used for a short time or for months or years, depending on the individual's situation." She paused. "That means that it isn't too late, Sam. You could still be revived." Tessa felt confused. Why had she said that? Her job was to convince spirits to leave -to _gather_ the lost souls. Then why, for the first time in the history of her job, did she want Sam to be able to stay? No. she hurriedly put that thought out of her mind. That was not what she was feeling. It wasn't. Tessa had a task, assigned by Death, and she had to follow orders.

Had to.

Had to?

No. Had to.

She continued, looking sadder than usual. This time, the emotion was almost real. "But, you have to understand that there's only a fifty-fifty chance of you ever waking up again, even with a transplant. I will tell you the same thing I told you brother: You come now into the light and you live forever in peace, where someday Dean will join you. You can be with Jessica and Mommy and Daddy and Jo and Ellen and Ash; all your friends, family- everyone who ever meant anything to you. Or, you stay, Sam, and you become bitter. You hate; you fester, here, on earth, without a body to return to and without an escape to run into. You will linger, alone, waiting for a release that will never come. Even when your body withers away and dies, shriveled and decayed, your spirit will remain. Alone. Forever. Eventually, you will turn into the very thing that you hunt. But who could blame you, after it all? Decades of haunting, lingering without another soul for company- It would drive anyone mad…" She trailed off and gave a long breath. Tessa looked up at him earnestly. "I've watched it happen, Sam. It isn't pretty. Do you really want that?" She held his arm with a gentle warmness that instantly sent a tide of ease coursing throughout the Winchester. "Would _Dean_ really want that?"

Sam looked more conflicted than ever, eyes darting between the bed and the reaper. His jaw was tight and his shoulders stiff. By his side, fingers twitched, unsure of what to do. "I- I need some time. Please. Just some time to think." Tessa nodded.

"I will be back before sunrise. Have your decision by then." She prepared to leave, feeling the mist of the dimension envelop her like the delicate cloth it was. But then, Tessa stopped. She turned once more to face Sam.

"Oh, and Sam?"

Sam turned, facing her. Tears were collecting in his brilliant brown eyes. She felt a pang of regret.

Very ominously, with a knowing glance, she faced him completely. "Make the right choice." And with that, Tessa was gone.

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"Salt Rounds?"

"Check."

"Machete?"

"Check."

"Flamethrower?"

"Check."

"12-Gauge?"

_Click-click,_ "Check."

"All right then, boy." Bobby closed the trunk, his own double barrel by his side. "I guess that means we're ready to go." He climbed into the passenger side of the Impala. Dean sauntered around to the driver's seat, opened the door and paused. He shot a quick glance up to the twelfth floor of the hospital. Somehow, just knowing that Sam was there, safe, reassured him. He might be really messed up, but at least he wouldn't be getting barbequed anytime soon. Dean almost laughed. He could imagine Sam's face when he woke up in the hospital. Sammy would go on a rampage, kicking down doors with his Sasquatch feet, yelling at nurses that he was fine and wanted to leave.

That is…_**if**_ he woke up. But he would.

He had to.

The doctors had told him the damage sustained from the cardiac arrest itself had not been too bad. They had been astounded that a young man so healthy could have such a severe attack. Yah, no kidding. Bobby had been up all night doing research, trying to explain what happened, to see if they could reverse it. Dean had been up all night too, just sitting and thinking, unable to sleep.

Around two o'clock in the morning, Bobby had jumped out of his chair, startling Dean so badly he grabbed for his sidearm. Bobby had finally found what he had been looking for: an old text, written in the Philippines by a priest of their Old Religion. As they flipped through the pages, they were stunned. Some of these practices had been extinct since the time of _los conquistadores_. The archives said something concerning "Vítimas mortos-vivos" (undead victims). The Aswang could feed slowly off those he had poisoned, if the kill wasn't immediate. It would drain them of their "Força da Vida", or essence, in order to feed. They figured after the last attack, the Aswang's hold on Sam had tightened, and now they were racing against the clock.

Dean slid in to the front seat and started the car. Somehow, the deep rumble wasn't as comforting today. He steered the Impala out of the hospital parking lot and onto the main drag towards the factory. Dean blocked out everything else and focused on the road. As he put pressure on the petal, he felt the rage churning inside him. This bitch was gonna die. It was gonna be painful. And Dean was gonna enjoy watching it burn.

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They parked almost a block away from the warehouse, hoping to catch the Aswang unaware. For Christ's sake, the fucking thing could spit fire- the element of surprise was all they had.

Bobby and Dean slung their guns and packs over their shoulders. They each went through their pre-hunt ritual.

Dean checked and rechecked his pistols, Bobby shined his flamethrower.

Dean filled his belt with salt rounds, Bobby stowed away his extra silver knifes.

Dean dusted his jacket, Bobby straightened his cap.

Everybody ready? Ok, let's go.

The two men crept up to the side of the warehouse, avoiding windows on the ground floor. The bricks were blackened ad cracked from their previous antics, making the upper floor windows blend into the dark night sky. They had no way of knowing where their wee beastie was. They were really just hoping that it was so tired from its frolic yesterday that it would stay home and put its feet up for a while, maybe even watch the game. But Dean highly doubted that.

There was no way this place had cable...

Bobby waved to Dean, signaling. Dean gave a short nod and sidestepped left, gun drawn and poised. Bobby nodded in return and signaled with his fingers for Dean to go left, and then enter though the first door. Dean nodded and did as he was told. Bobby hustled to the separate door twenty feet down the drive. He entered cautiously, shotgun raised. He saw Dean at the other end of the room. They nodded at each other, splitting up and searching floor by floor, as they had the first time. Again, every sweep was clear…except the fourth floor. Dean was getting an uncomfortable sensation of déjà vu as the two of them walked up the steps to the fourth level. He kept expecting at any moment for the windows to shatter around them and the fireball to billow up from the ground floor.

But everything remained silent.

The door to the 4th floor was hanging off its hinges. Dean grimaced as he recalled picking the lock, barely making it inside, as the explosion had thrown them forward, shattering the door frame. He pushed the memory from his mind. This was the present, not the past, and they were much better prepared. They knew the plan. They'd walked through it a hundred times. Well, at least, Dean had _**told**_ Bobby _**one**_ plan. Only Dean knew Plan B. Sure, they would charge in, guns a-blazing, flames a-throwing, but when it came down to the nitty-gritty, the only way to save Sam was to kill the Aswang. The only way to kill it was to expose its heart. The only way it would expose its heart would be to feed. That was the last course of action, and he hoped it didn't come down to that, but Dean had to do what Dean had to do. He had thrown himself in the fire for his brother before, and he was prepared to do it again.

Bobby shot a glance over to Dean, seeing the brooding, pensive expression. Both men were tense and sweating, feeling the suspense in the room. Booby felt bad for Dean, knowing how worried he must be about Sam. They knew that the only way to save Sam was to kill it-to rip its still beating heart out of its chest and stab the damn thing with the bone of a saint- not an easy task. He wanted to reassure Dean, to comfort him, to try and convince him that everything would be alright. But you can't lie to the children of John Winchester.

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"It's like he's being drained. I don't understand it. We've upped his nutrients, his fluids…nothing is working. The cardio therapy should have worked, or at least shown some signs of improvement. His vitals are getting worse by the hour. I've never seen anything like this in all my years… I think we're going to lose him."

"It's not your fault, doctor. We've done all we can do. Only thing left now is to pray and wait."

"SON OF A BITCH! I'M RIGHT HERE!" Sam had shouted in their faces, had ripped at their clothing, but nothing was working. They were talking about him like he was already dead.

Like he'd already made his decision.

He paced around his room, the white sterility of it all making him want to vomit. Where was Dean? Probably already hunting. He'd figured it out by now. The Aswang was feeding off his life force, mojo; whatever the hell you wanna call it. The damn thing needed to die for Sam to wake up, but Dean and Bobby should not have gone by themselves! Dammit! Dean should at least have called Castiel, which Sam knew he didn't do because Dean was a stubborn asshole who insisted he never needed any help from anyone. Sam's steps quickened. He was wearing a hole in the floor…well, figuratively.

He shot a glance at the clock on the wall above the door.

4:30 am

The sun would be rising in less than an hour. "Jesus, Dean…" Sam slumped down next to his lifeless shell, glaring at the tubes and wires poking out of him like vines. He hated them, wanted to rip them out, but that would be stupid. After all, he needed a body to return to when Dean saved him.

That is…_**if**_ Dean saved him. But he would.

He had to.

"Please hurry up, Dean…"

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The stench was the first thing that greeted the two hunters as they emerged from the stairwell onto the top floor landing. It must have been masked by the smoke before, but even with all the chaos and haze, Dean wondered how he could have missed. It. Now, Dean Winchester had smelled some foul things in his life (at the top of the list: Sam in the Impala after Mexican food) but his was definitely up there. The room secreted the odor of rotting meat, gasoline, and something that reminded him of his trip down into a city sewer pipe on a shifter hunt. Guess it's safe to say that their little beastie here wasn't exactly Martha Stewart…

"Bobby," Dean waved him over.

"Yah, what is it?" Dean looked around cautiously. The Aswang was definitely there somewhere, and it probably knew they were there. Bobby met his eyes. He was thinking the same thing. Dean nodded and the two men split up, guns drawn and ready, fingers sitting pretty on the triggers. Salt rounds wouldn't kill it, but Dean hoped they would sting like a bitch.

They skirted the exterior of the room. It had appeared to be much longer when Dean had to crawl on his hand and knees post-explosion, but now Dean saw it was a pretty regulation size shop floor- maybe fifty yards in length, smaller offices off in the corner opposite the elevator. Dean gave an involuntary shudder when he looked through the open elevator doors. Every time he blinked, he saw the chain, biting deeper into his flesh, burning off his skin, cracking and snapping his bones… it had been way too similar to the pit. He let the thought recede into the back of his mind. He would just bury it with all the other ones, and then lock the door with some Yukon Jack before bed tonight. Ah, the medicine to cure all ills.

Bobby waved to get Dean's attention. He motioned for Dean to back him up. .He was going into the offices. Dean jogged over silently. He stood opposite Bobby as the older man prepared to kick down the first door. Dean counted.

One…

Two…

BANG! The door dropped like a stone, wood splintering into the dark hallway before them. Dean gave Bobby a surprised and impishly impressed look with an acknowledging tilt of the head. Bobby stood a little straighter. "Bet you thought I couldn't do that anymore, did you?" he whispered.

"Well, not without blowing out your hip replacement." Dean ducked to avoid the head slap. Despite himself, Bobby smiled.

They drew their guns again and stepped over the wreck that used to be the door. As they entered the dark hallway, the stench only got worse. It was overpowering them, now. Rotting eggs, sulfur, maggots, and just….death. They were starting to dry heave. Their eyes were watering and they had to stop and tie strips of cloth over their mouths and noses. This sucked. There were half a dozen small offices branching off the hallway, and then one final, important-looking double oak door at the end of the passage.

Every room up to there was clear, but the oaken doors remained shut. Dean knew that neither of them could possibly kick down those doors. Sam could, with his giant moose legs, but he wasn't exactly available at the moment.

However, the Aswang very kindly saved them the trouble by opening the door for them.

What a gentleman.

Dean was reaching into his back pocket for his handy dandy lock picks when the solid door flew off its frame, fire erupting and incinerating the remaining wood lacquer. Shrapnel flew, raining over the two men. Bobby was somewhat sheltered, pinned to the wall behind a sheet of double layer oak, but Dean was out in the open. Splinters the size of staplers were flying as if shot out of a cannon. He covered his head as best he could, but everything happened in a matter of seconds, and Dean couldn't react fast enough. One, two, three, maybe more, spears of oak pierced his back, but his adrenaline was roaring through him, and Dean couldn't feel a thing. The Aswang leapt out from behind the ten foot wall of fire, glistening with sweat and shaking with rage. Its skin was moist and crackling, bones and teeth grinding as he stalked towards the downed Winchester. Dean struggled to get up, his ears still ringing from the explosion and his own blood trickling down the back of his shirt. The Aswang grabbed Dean by the throat, lifting him high into the air. Dean couldn't breathe, and the monster was crushing his jaw with its powerful clawed fingers. Dean saw movement in the corner of his eye: Bobby, shuffling under debris. He struggled to release a few words.

"B-Bo-bby, No! N-not ye-yet!" Bobby had finally gotten out from underneath the door and had his 12-gauge aimed at the Aswang's head. Dean couldn't let him shoot now, not when they were so close! Dean knew that the Aswang's heart was only exposed while it fed, not a moment before. Bobby had to wait until…

Dean was starting to see little black dots swimming in front of his eyes. But, he had gotten what he wanted. The monster's chest was heaving, its tendrils shaking. The skin of the monster started to split apart near his abdomen, the cleave snaking its way up to the monster's collarbone. The stench would have made Dean cry if he could have taken a breath. Coils and spikes folded out from its rib cage and extended, stretching toward Dean, toward food.

"B-Bobby!" Dean glared at the hunter, who was obviously confused. Dean was telling him not to shoot, not to save him. Realization dawned on the old man. This is what Dean had known would happen; this was what he had been counting on. The only surefire way to save his brother…that fucking idjit!

Bobby was torn. His gaze alternated between the monster's sickening probes and Dean's determined, oxygen-starved face. Bobby had his shotgun ready and the stake in his pocket. Dean knew the only access they would have to its heart would be while it fed. They needed the heart out of its body and burned, or Sam might never wake up again…

But what to do?!

He certainly knew what Dean wanted!

He knew what Sam would have wanted!

Bobby looked out the hall through one of the giant Plexiglas windows. The sun was coming up from behind the mountains in the east. Red and pink streaked across the sky, clouds illuminated in the crisp gold of dawn.

But Bobby knew what needed to be done.

He lowered the barrel and turned away his face as Dean's gurgling screams began.

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**OMG! How was that chapter!? Tense enough for you? Hahaha, thank you guys so much for the incredible reviews I got. Hope you leave me even better ones this time around! Please review! Tell me what you think! Everyone who leaves me review gets a complimentary "I Love Jensen Ackles" T-Shirt signed by Jensen and Misha and Jared! And they will hand deliver it to you wearing nothing but clown shoes (except Jared, because we all know clowns are a touchy subject…)!**

**PLEASE REVIEW! I WORKED REALLY HARD!**


	9. Chapter 9

**PREVIOUSLY:**

Bobby looked out the hall through one of the giant Plexiglas windows. The sun was coming up from behind the mountains in the east. Red and pink streaked across the sky, clouds illuminated in the crisp gold of dawn.

But Bobby knew what needed to be done.

He lowered the barrel and turned away his face as Dean's gurgling screams began.

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_Holy shit, holy shit. _Dean gulped desperately for a few breaths. He needed to prepare himself for the pain coming, but his throat remained constricted. _This is gonna suck_. Dean wanted Bobby make the choice- the right choice- and he was prepared to follow through. But man, was Dean starting to wish there was a Plan C…

The Young Winchester watched the probes extend from the creatures abdomen through his clouded vision. The monster's grip on his larynx only tightened. If he didn't take a breath soon, he was going to pass out (which wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing, considering how much this was going to fucking kill). _Oxygen!_ His brain screamed at him. His vision was blacked out, his head was thundering, and his throat was on fire. Dean could feel his heartbeat getting slower and slower as suffocation drew him down, down, down. He was slipping farther from life and closer to death…closer to hell.

_No! I will not go back! I can't! Please! All I have to do is breathe!_

_Just Breathe!_

And then, like a gift, there it was. The monster's claws slacked, completely releasing him, and Dean's constricted throat opened, raw and scratchy as he dropped to the floor. He coughed, sucking in deep breaths and trying to ignore the sudden rush of blood from his head. He gulped the air from his surroundings, stretching out his neck to absorb of much of it as he could. The cool air filled his lungs. Expanding and contracting his diaphragm had never felt so good, Dean decided. Oxygen rich blood overloaded his synapses, and he whirled around in a sudden surge of post-hostage adrenaline. However Dean's escape was cut short. He felt two monstrous hands grab him by the shoulders, claws digging and cutting into his biceps. Roughly, the monster turned Dean to face him, and the razor sharp tips of the probes pressed against his chest, digging in. Dean struggled to contain his cries, but it was inevitable. Shooting one last desperation-filled glance at Bobby, Dean was pleased at what he saw. Bobby had turned away. Good. That means he had made the right decision. Not to mention, Dean didn't want him to see this.

"Jesus," Dean's eyes rolled back in his head as he huffed, trying to control his breathing and try not to scream. But, the white-hot pain very quickly turned into scorching agony. Dean wasn't even aware that he had begun the ear-splitting cries. "_Holy- son of a- ah, AAAAGHHHHHHHHHH!EEEEEEEHHHHHH! SON OF A BI-HUH, HUH, GGAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!" _the pain was blinding, white hot flares of fire snaking through his chest. The monster pressed deeper and deeper. Blood spurted from the wounds, flying across the room and spraying Bobby. Dean felt the bile and blood rise up into his mouth and he choked and sputtered between his agonized screams. Blood and foam oozed out of his slack mouth. His head lolled to the side. He was sinking.

_Why hadn't Bobby taken the shot yet? The Aswang's heart was right there! It was exposed! He needed to hit it with the salt and iron round and then jump in and stake the damn thing! Why hadn't he taken the shot?!_

And that's when it dawned on him.

Dean was blocking the shot. Bobby would have to shoot through Dean.

A moment of panic seized him. The plan was not going as expected, now. _How can he take the shot if-_

His thoughts were interrupted by an even worse spike of red hot pain shooting across his body. The probes were extending. Any closer now and the thing would be sucking his liver like an egg.

"STTT-OOOOOOOOOOPPP PLEASE! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH! JESUS! NOOOOOOOO!" Screams were bursting from Dean's ravaged throat. The pain wracked him, pulling him into the deepest level of unconsciousness. THIS was pain- pain to the highest extent ever felt by a Winchester. Blood, hot and red, was seeping down into his shoes and dripping onto the floor. He couldn't take it anymore. Images of hell flashed before his glazed eyes. The fear, and the smoke, and the blood. There had been so much blood.

_Please, Bobby. Please shoot._

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"Sam?" Sam took in a shaky breath, trying to remain calm. _No. Dawn couldn't be so soon, could it? Hadn't she only been here, like, twenty minutes ago? _Sam was trying to think of excuses, reasons not to go, reasons that she should just leave him alone, and reasons that he couldn't die. There was only one he could think of.

Dean.

And, dammit, that one reason was good enough for him.

"Sam, there's no point denying the inevitable. We both know how this is going to end…" she trailed off, coming closer, resting a surprisingly warm and soft hand on his shoulder. Again, a feeling of tranquility flowed through him, making him less tense. _Maybe, just maybe, this wasn't so bad. Maybe it would be ok if I left. Dean would bring me back, anyway, right? Maybe Dean would even be fine without me… after all he does have Castiel, doesn't he? And_ _Bobby…_

_Wait…_

_What the hell am I thinking?!_

Sam realized what Tessa was doing: lulling him into a false sense of security with her creepy little reaper tricks. And God, he was not falling for it. He shrugged off her hand, more violently than necessary, and backed away from her

"Fuck. You." Sam muttered slowly, a cold composed glint to his eyes that said 'don't even think about messing with me'. His voice was low, husky, and downright terrifying. His head was turned down and his eyes were hardened. Dean, under the context of brotherly love, would have called it bitch face #42, but to Tessa, it startled her so much that she stopped dead (pardon the pun) in her tracks.

"Sam," Tessa tried to regain her composure, attempting an indignant look. "That's not very respectful. Besides, denial is useless at this point. I told you, if you don't come with me now, there's no telling what might happen. Think of your brother, Sam. Think of Dean. Dean would want-" Tessa was interrupted by a very angry moose, appearing quite suddenly in front of her, his raging face inches from her own.

"Tessa," there was always a quiet anger to Sam's voice, unlike his rowdy brother who would ignite at any second and throw a shit fit loud enough to wake the neighbors. "Tessa, don't you dare say a word about what my brother would want. You don't know my brother. I do." He inched closer to her until their faces brushed up against one another. She shivered. He grew angrier. Sam whispered directly into her ear.

"My brother would want me to stay here, and not leave. My brother would want me to stay here, and keep fighting. And my brother would want me to tell you to stick it where the sun don't shine. So as far as I'm concerned, I am staying, and if you aren't happy with that, you can kiss my ass. I would never leave my brother here by himself, and you are off your rocker if you think I would. So piss off, and don't you dare come back."

Tessa's nostrils flared, her hands balled into fists at her side. "Sam. Think. About. What. You. Are. Saying. Don't you understand, you thick headed human? If you say no, then you are stuck here forever. I will not come back for you. I will leave you here, to anguish, for eternity. I will let you stay, here, trapped until-"

"Exactly." Sam stepped closer, making Tessa back away with uncertainty. "But Dean won't. Dean would never leave me, and I won't leave him either." Tessa was fuming.

"Never, EVER, have I been so insulted. This is my profession! My skill! This is the task I have been assigned by God! How dare you think that you, some gangly, hairy HUMAN could possibly show such disrespect to a servant of Death! I'll-I'll have you reaped by the Horseman himself! I, I will-"

"Oh, blow it out your ass, Tessa."

"URRRRRRRRGGGGGGGG!" she huffed, and actually stomped her foot. _Such a girl_, Sam thought. It was slightly amusing. He had never seen a reaper throw such a bitch fit. Tessa dissipated into thin air mid-rant, leaving Sam alone…possibly forever. He swallowed, hoping he had made the right choice. Even if Dean didn't succeed, even if Sam did die, never let it be said he didn't love his stupid, alcoholic, womanizing older brother.

But for now, Sam sat.

And he sat.

And he waited.

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Bobby was sprinting around the beast, looking for an opening, anything to sneak his way in there. Dean's cries tore through his soul, piercing his heart worse than any knife. "DAMMIT!" Bobby exclaimed over the wails of both boy and beast. Dean was fighting back furiously, once he had realized Bobby couldn't take the shot. Bobby saw the drain in the boy's face, and the immense agony, but that hadn't stopped John's eldest son from ripping off two of the probes in less than ten seconds. _Keep fightin', ya dipshit, keep fightin'. I'm-a comin', I'm-a comin'._

Bobby sidestepped, confusing the already dazed creature who had been struggling to keep the man in front of him as a shield against the older hunter. _This thing may be ugly, but it ain't stupid._

Bobby saw an opening, raised, and fired, the shotgun sending a fierce kick back into his old shoulder. That was gonna be sore in the morning for sure. But, the shot did the trick; the monster staggered backwards, blood spurting from its wound, but nowhere near as dead as they wanted it. Dean fell, unmoving, to the floor, blood pooling around his crumpled body.

Bobby hesitated. Should he quickly check to make sure Dean was ok? Or should he go straight for the kill.

_Oh, snap the hell out of it, ya damned fool. Kill the bastard and let's go home. You're getting soft in your old age. _Bobby agreed with his crotchety self and sprinted to the Aswang, which was sputtering and shaking to regain its composure, blood flowing freely from the grapefruit sized hole above it chest cavity. Drawing the Saint's Bone from under his jacket, Bobby lunged. The Monster screamed and swiped at him as he went in for the kill, but the monster was still dazed, and losing blood quickly; plus, Bobby was fast…even for an old man.

The bone found its mark, and Bobby felt the tremors of the ancient creature beneath him as the stake drove home. It let out a blood curdling scream, like nails on a chalkboard and tires on wet pavement. Bobby covered his ears with his blood soaked hands, feeling his eardrums pop. Still, only half of the work was done. Bobby ignored the awful wails and two-handed the bone, carving the heart from the layered, blue tissue. Blood pooled around him, a sticky, hot substance that seemed to be everywhere. The monster was desperately trying to get up, to defend itself, but Bobby had it pinned, his weight on top of the weakened monster.

Ha. Good thing he _didn't_ have that damned Stairmaster.

The Heart rested in Bobby' leathery hands, now, still pumping. Bobby wanted to throw it, and be rid of it, but he held onto it despite the bile crawling up his throat. The smell was overpowering, like rotten garbage in a city sewer crowded with dead skunks and gym socks. Yah. Really Bad.

The monster continued to scream as Bobby stood up, lighter and translated spell in hand. He had to shout to be heard above the wails.

"INTERDICUNT HOC DAEMON A FACIE TERRAE-_**OOOF!**_"

Bobby felt the ground rush out from under him as a solid hit to the back sent him flying into a pile of mechanical parts. The monster had whacked him aside with one sweep of its paw, probably using whatever life force it had left. That meant he was draining Sam more than ever. Bobby struggled to get up, but couldn't move. He was completely dazed from the blow, and his arms and knees wobbled when he tried to push himself into a sitting position. The monster crawled its way across the floor to its heart, moving to shelter it. Bobby was powerless to stop it.

_Balls!_

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Sam sat studying his own drawn, exhausted face in the bed before him. It was fascinating, but revolting at the same time. Already he had found three freckles he had never even know he had. This was going to be an exciting eternity, all right.

That's when the wave of nausea washed over him, sending him convulsing and keening to the floor. Wracking heaves coursed through his body as he felt himself flicker, being further drained. The heart machine next to the wall began to beep faster and faster, then beeping at irregular intervals. Finally, his heartbeat skidded to a halt and flat lined.

He was dying.

"No!" Sam shouted between fits. "STOP IT! HELP! SOMEONE, HELP!"

Doctors and nurses came sprinting into the room, alarmed by the sirens emanating from the machines. They brought out the AED and started giving him volts. Sam noticed angry red welts from the last time still plain on his skin. He felt so scared, so sick to his stomach, Sam just wanted to hit somebody. He glanced nervously at the machines, pleading for some sign of life. But Sam felt stronger and stronger by the second, which meant that his vessel was getting weaker and weaker with every moment that passed. "SON OF A BITCH! DO SOMETHING!" Sam was screaming into the nurses' faces, yelling at them to try harder, but he knew they couldn't hear him.

The doctor kept working on him, glancing at the machines, recharging the paddles. They huffed words of encouragement to the unconscious Sam, and to themselves. After a minute, the doubt was apparent on some, hidden on others. After two minutes, the group was collectively hopeless. Sam stared in furious awe as the doctor hesitated, then lowered the paddles.

"No. No. No. NO! What do you think you're doing? Pick the damned things back up! What the hell?! Don't stop, SAVE ME!" But he doctor placed them back in their holders.

"I-I have to call it, guys. He's gone." The blonde nurse patted his shoulder, while the brunette one glanced at her watch. "6 am on the dot," she announced. Sam watched in horror as the other nurse wrote the time robotically on his chart. The doctor draped the hospital sheet over Sam's face, making a call down to the hospital morgue.

Sam was gone.

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Dean watched through partly open eyes as Bobby made a grab for the monster's thumper. _Way to go, old man._ Dean had thought. _Bobby can handle this._ That's why Dean had been so surprised when he heard the crash of car parts in the corner. He had lifted his head off the ground, subdued by the nausea that resulted from this small movement. However, he had seen enough. Bobby, against the wall and Mr. Sunshine crawling his way back to his heart. _Not even five minutes. I can't have five fucking minutes…_

And with that, Dean pulled himself into a sitting position, despite the vomit that dribbled down his chin and the blood still oozing from his chest and nose. In all respects, he should be completely unconscious , if not dead, but hey, Dean wasn't exactly complaining.

Dean staggered his way across the floor, equally as beat up as the monster. The two bloody, dying beings made their last showdown. For a moment, the two enemies caught each other's glances. Dean stared into the monsters evil, pus-yellow eyes with his own piercing green ones. After a split second, Dean lunged for the heart as the Aswang rolled towards it. Dean landed on top of the heart first, struggling against the monster's razor claws. Dean buried the heart, still pumping weakly, within his jacket and trundled across the bloody concrete, away from the monster and towards the paper on the floor. He picked up his lighter, his throat scratchy and raw, but his voice determined and deadly. Dean was swaying where he stood, desperately trying to remain conscious, just focusing on the words that seemed to be dancing across the paper.

"Interdicunt hoc daemon a facie terrae et mittere hoc gentili creatura antiquum et Debilitata religio ad igneum nostrae humanae penetralibus christianitatis infernum. Quibus carere hoc daemon omni veneno daemonum luci Christi Domini et purgare eos de venenis. Et supernaturalis est parum pudici et nostra habent pueri pulchris corporibus et magnam, sarcinas!"

And with that, Dean dropped his lighter onto the pulsing mass of tissue in front of him and it went up in a blaze. The monster let out one more sickening scream as it began smoking from the inside. The smell was too much for the Winchester, who was already on Death's door. Dean's knees buckled and he fell forward onto the concrete, landing painfully on his knees. Dean glanced at window, seeing the sunrise for the first time in a long time. It was…_breathtaking_. Pink and yellow and purple streaked across the sky, the light blue creeping its way into the mix. Somewhere off in the distance, a church bell tolled. _Bong…bong…bong…bong…bong…bong…_

It was six in the morning, and as far as Dean knew, Sam was safe. He sighed, content.

Dean wobbled and flailed forward, landing right on his face. It didn't hurt, though. The concrete was cool and almost comfortable, compared to the stinging heat everywhere in his body. Perhaps a snooze was called for.

And with that, Dean closed his heavy eyes, expecting to drift off into unconsciousness with a gradual ease.

He sank like a stone.

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_ A Noteworthy Observation,_

_ Humans are such complicated creatures. They are so fragile, so unstable, yet given the opportunity, they purposefully attempt to throw themselves into harm's way. Are they so desperate to meet me that they decide they simply cannot wait? They say patience is a virtue, yet none of them seem to possess even a single iota of it. Well, perhaps they think they do, but when you have been around for as long as I have, Patience becomes life, not a virtue. Oh, my apologies, I said __**life**__. I do believe that is a pun. Oh, how droll._

_ Under any different circumstances, I would not have become involved, however, Tessa is one of my more favorable reapers, so when she returned to me without a Winchester about her, I become oddly curious. Ah, curiosity, how complex an emotion art thou. Though, I do believe I was fond of it once, before I came to know everything. I did inquire after her actions, and upon hearing her explanation, realized I should be feeling slightly put out, but was resorting instead to amusement, of all things. I do believe I almost smiled. My mouth twitched. It was unusual, that twitch. _

_I am not sure I enjoyed it._

_ But I digress. Simply put, Sam and Dean Winchester have been a thorn in my side for quite some time now, and I am not sure what to do with them. Alas, I believe I have almost grown fond of them. A creature such as myself cannot go for an eternity without having at least one plaything every once in a millennia. Therefore, I do believe that I have given the authority upon myself to assist them, until further notice. Let them not forget it, either. Perhaps I shall take them out for that traditional cheesy cultural food..._

_ - Mors Equitis_

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**Ok, so what did you guys think? Too much action, not enough? Hey if you wanna have some fun, plug that Latin spell into Google translate and read what I wrote. Then plug in the name 'Mors Equitis' at the end as well. It's pretty amusing ;) but it got a little distorted through the translator, because hey, it's Google. If you follow me as an author, let me just say that I like to sneak those kinds of things into stories, so always be on the lookout! PLEASE REVEW! 3 And I will love you forever! Oh, by the way, if you guys have any prompts you want me to write, let me know. I am for anything, even slash (ha-ha), and I need some more ideas, because this story will be over soon! (But not too soon)!**


	10. Chapter 10

**PREVIOUSLY: **

**It was six in the morning, and as far as Dean knew, Sam was safe. He sighed, content.**

**Dean wobbled and flailed forward, landing right on his face. It didn't hurt, though. The concrete was cool and almost comfortable, compared to the stinging heat everywhere in his body. Perhaps a snooze was called for.**

**And with that, Dean closed his heavy eyes, expecting to drift off into unconsciousness with a gradual ease.**

**He sank like a stone.**

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_**Simply put, Sam and Dean Winchester have been a thorn in my side for quite some time now, and I am not sure what to do with them. Alas, I believe I have almost grown fond of them. A creature such as myself cannot go for an eternity without having at least one plaything every once in a millennia. Therefore, I do believe that I have given the authority upon myself to assist them, until further notice. Let them not forget it, either. Perhaps I shall take them out for that traditional cheesy cultural food...**_

_**- Mors Equitis**_

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He sniffled. Dammit. He rubbed his hand across his nostrils. Dammit! He scratched furiously into his pillow, pressing his nose into the sterile cotton cover. Sam hated itchy noses. He hated them. They were the most annoying itch of all. You could never seem to scratch them all the way, and if you did, then people always thought you were picking your nose. If only there was a machine that would scratch it for you. Maybe he could invent-

Wait a second….

Sam's nose…was itching?

His eyes shot open, the harsh whiteness of the room assaulting his tired pupils. He felt groggy, and gave a lazy yawn.

Hold on.

Had he been…sleeping?

He sat upright, completely bewildered. Sam lifted his arms, shocked at what he saw. The wires were still connected. His IV drip was going at a steady rate, and the heart monitor was beeping calmly and healthily.

He was alive.

…

What. The. Fuck.

"Don't look so surprised, Samuel." Sam jumped in fear, pulling on the tubes. The voice was too familiar, too full of coldness and vastness. It was like a giant hole in the universe, sucking all the life and warmth into its depths. The unspeakable power emanating from such a small, insignificant shell was almost disturbing.

Death.

"Honestly, Sam. Don't be such a child. No need to be frightened. I'm not here for what you think. "

Sam gave him a skeptical look. "So…I'm _not_ going to die?"

"Oh, no. You are, definitely. Just not today." Death strolled around the room, his ornamental cane tapping the floor lightly. "I simply felt it necessary to give you some assistance after your brother failed so miserably. After all, you two did manage to somehow avoid the apocalypse. Don't ask me how or why, but you surprised even me, which is no easy feat by any standard." Death paused to take a long, uninterested breath while Sam absorbed what he had just said.

"Wait, so are you telling me…You…saved me? You. The horseman." Sam had one eyebrow raised in complete disbelief. None of this was making sense.

"Yes, Sam. Don't everybody thank me at once." Death shot him…well, a Death Stare_. _It immediately humbled the disoriented Winchester.

"Well, sir, I-I didn't mean it like that. Of-Of course I want to thank you." Sam's eyes were downcast as he fumbled for words. "But, you said that Dean…failed? What does that-"

Death cut him off with a simple shrug of the shoulders. "Your brother is fine, Sam. Well, mostly. I dare say he had a long night. He looks worse than you did after your own little run in at the library." Sam made an effort to cut in. _How did Death know about that? What happened to Dean? _But all his questions were preemptively dismissed by the wave of one bony hand.

"Oh, save your breath, Sam. You have too few left to be wasting them on silly questions." And with that, Death was gone.

Sam sat, not sure if what he had just seen had been real or not. Suddenly, something caught his attention. A smell wafted through the air from the sliding tray opposite the monitor. Sam stared at the box.

"Pizza?"

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"Sigh… you Winchesters are not the brightest bunch, are you…" It was more of a statement than a question. Death hovered over Dean's mangled body and shook his head. The things he does for these boys. Both Bobby and Dean were unconscious, but Dean was the only one who was going to die.

Yes, he was going to die. And it didn't take someone like Death to figure it out, either. Anyone could tell. Blood, more blood than a person could possibly afford to lose, was pooled and caking around his crumpled form. His eyes, though still flickering with life, were half open, glazed over, and unseeing. Dean's hair and clothes were matted with what looked like sweat, blood, and other bodily fluids.

_Humans. They are so….messy._

"You are lucky that I tolerate you, Dean Winchester." Death tapped the tip of his gentleman's cane to Dean's forehead. Death's expression remained blank and uninterested as Dean's wounds disappeared, closing and healing. Dean's body gave one large convulsion, and then lapsed back into complete stillness.

"Now, go do your job. And stop trying to get yourself killed. It's quite unbecoming, and you do not wish to annoy me any further, do you?" Death waited for a response.

None. Dean was dead to the world (metaphorically, I promise).

Death gave a nonchalant nod and flicked nonexistent debris off his shoulder. "Good. I didn't think so."

And again, Death vanished.

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Dean felt like he had been hit by a truck.

"Uggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…" He opened his eyes and groaned, rolling over onto his back. "Bobby? Where are you, old man?"

"Eeeeeeeehhhhhhhh…" Was his response. Dean sighed and closed his eyes again.

Needless to say, neither man was too quick about getting up.

"You alright, Bobby?" Dean craned his neck to look across the floor. He was too tired to sit up and move.

"Yep. I feel great."

Dean's brows furrowed in confusion. "Wait, seriously?"

Bobby's sigh was audible from across the room. "You're a dipshit. I'm being sarcastic. Come over here and help me up."

"Heh heh, I don't think so. I ain't feeling too hot myself." Both men gave a light chuckle before the gravity of the night's situation sank in.

"Yah," Bobby grimaced from the small chuckle. "I wouldn't think so. Man, when that thing grabbed you…" He trailed off.

Both men's eyes shot open.

"HOLY SHIT, DEAN!" Bobby cried. The old man launched off the ground and sprinted over, expecting to see what had previously been there. But instead of finding a cold dead man soaked to the bone in his own blood, he found a healthy and sleepy Dean.

"B-But…How in the world…" Bobby trailed off, wide-eyed and floundering for words.

Dean was just as astonished, and he was actually starting to panic a bit. He remembered everything: the pain, the blood, the smells…How could he possibly be alive. Never mind alive! How could he be completely unharmed? Dean was running his rough hands across his own chest, feeling for the wounds and cracked bones. None. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

"Maybe…Cas?" Dean looked up expectantly, but Bobby just shook his head.

"I don't know, son. I don't. I wish I did, but I don't." They thought for a minute. "Nah, boy. If it were Cas, he would have stuck around. Maybe even help me out too, I would hope." Bobby grimaced and rubbed his shoulder. He could feel the broken rotator cuff clicking as he moved. He'd had worse, but still - It sure didn't feel like rainbows and kittens.

Bobby extended his good arm and helped Dean to his feet. The man wobbled a bit at first, but was soon upright and operating. Dean gave himself another once over, then nodded reassuringly at Bobby. He would be sore for a while, but all in all, he would be at a hundred percent in a few hours.

"C'mon, old man." Dean said as he threw Bobby's discarded bag at him. "We gotta go see Sam." Bobby nodded and followed him across the warehouse floor. Dean stopped before they reached the fourth floor landing and gave a small chuckle.

"What's so funny?" Bobby asked.

"He's probably awake by now, and I doubt he's enjoying his little stay in Casa Enferma." Dean flashed an impish grin and swaggered down the stairs, jumping two at a time until Bobby had to run to keep up. Dean didn't want Bobby to know this, but he really wanted to see Sam. He was trying to hide his fear, but Dean needed to make sure Sam was ok and well looked after.

Besides, there might be some really hot nurse on duty.

But to be fair, Sam was probably being pretty chill about the whole thing. Dean could picture him sitting all proper in the stupid little wheel chair drinking orange juice and watching Daytime Television while the nurses fawned over him. Dean gave snort. Sam was probably having the time of his life.

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"NO WAY IN HELL AM I STAYING HERE ANOTHER DAMN MINUTE!" Sam was fed up. He had tried nicely to tell the nurse to bring him the release papers, but she had been insistent. He had debated the head nurse, Supervisor, the doctor and even the orderlies. But they all insisted he stay for observation.

Fuck them. Sam could leave whenever the hell he wanted to.

This is America.

Sam was pissed. He started pulling off his wires and monitor pads. He ignored the stinging in his arm as he ripped out the IV. This is stupid. He wanted to go home. Where was Dean? WHERE WAS HE?! Sam pushed past the guard rails of the bed and the nurse with one sweep of his arms. He landed solidly on the floor, almost enjoying the cold sensation on his feet. He wanted to be up, to be moving. Most of all, he wanted to get the hell out.

"Sir! Sir? You can't be up yet. Sir! You need to get back in bed! Sir!" The nurse was about five foot at best, and she had to crane her neck up at a ninety degree angle just to look in Sam's face. Needless to say, she wasn't exactly intimidating.

"Excuse me, Ma'am. Sorry." Sam smiled politely then stepped around her. He cleared the distance between the bed and the door in a matter of minutes. Sam was about to open the door when the doctor strode through it.

"MR. WINCHESTER!" the doctor exclaimed, horrified. Sam was taken aback. Dean never used his real name unless it was really bad, when the hospital needed their actual health information. Then again, it had been pretty bad, hadn't it…

"Uh…uh…yah." Sam didn't really know what to say. The doctor was much larger than the nurse, of course, and was blocking the whole doorframe. He made a move to go around the doctor but was stopped by a firm hand placed in the center of his chest.

"You, Mr. Winchester are not to be going anywhere!" The doc shot a glance at the nurse. "Nurse Spellman, why did you allow him to leave his bed?" The nurse looked flustered and embarrassed. Sam felt bad, naturally.

"Aw, nah, Doc. She-She tried to keep me in bed, but I...I really hate hospitals; you see …please don't blame her. She's nice." Sam was still being glared at by the doctor, but the nurse was sending him more of a shy and thankful look than she had before.

The doctor gave a harrumph and pushed Sam in the direction of the bed. Sam couldn't fight back, as he was still pretty weak. So, he let himself be forced back under the crinkly sheets, despite his grumbling about how he was "just fine" and "damn good enough to go home". The doctor hooked him back up to the monitor and such, but Sam drew the line at being reattached to the IV.

"Not necessary, Doctor. If I'm dehydrated, go get me a Gatorade or something. I'm not comatose, I'm thirsty." Sam's arms were crossed in front of his chest, and he refused to make eye contact with anyone. If he was gonna stay, he was going to be difficult.

The doctor sighed and positioned himself near the head of the bed. "Son," he began, removing his wire-framed glasses with one hand. "I know you are frightened and you want to go home, but you have to understand…" The doctor paused, debating how to break the news. "Your condition was…critical, at best. You see…at one point…" The doctor looked at the floor. Hopefully the young man wouldn't be too frightened.

Sam knew what he was trying to tell him. _I died. Just say it doc. I'm a big boy. I think I can handle it. It's not exactly a new thing for me, I promise._

Sam put on an earnestly concerned face. He mentally chastised himself for being so childish, but he had no love for this place or these people, so what the hell, right? Why not have some fun?

"Give it to me straight, Doc." _Oh Jesus, so cliché! _Sam's eyes were so convincing, but he was laughing internally. He just had to amuse himself until Dean arrived to storm the castle walls and rescue him from the depths of this antibacterial hell.

The doctor, totally missing the sarcasm, continued on stoically. "There was a period of time, Sam, in which…you were legally dead." He paused for dramatic effect, and Sam's eyes got huge. "You were dead for over three minutes. The coroner found you breathing when he came up to collect you. Needless to say, it was a shock to us all." He placed a hand on Sam's arm, completely misinterpreting the pained expression on Sam's face. "I'm sorry, son. I know it's frightening."

Sam couldn't help himself; he broke. A huge grin, dripping with smugness, split his face from ear to ear. The doctor looked puzzled at first, and then became scarlet from anger.

"You treat this as a joke? How-how dare you! You insolent boy! You are ignorant of Death and its properties. You taunt Death! Well, one day, Death will rear up and bite you right in the ass!" The doctor stood, his white coat flapping. Sam couldn't help himself, he started chuckling. If only that Doctor knew…

"Ain't that the truth..." Sam retorted. And with a final sputter, the old man stormed out, nurse at his side.

Sam watched them march away through the door. He was about to turn his head to study the intricate patterns of a clean, bland wall when he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked, scanning the hallway outside his room.

"Hello?" he called, flipping back the cumbersome sheets and once again rising from the cramped bed. "Anyone out here?" Sam walked to the hallway, poking his head out.

_SPLASH!_

"What the-" Sam was wiping water of his face, spitting and shaking the droplets from his hair and his eyes.

"Hey there, little bro!" Dean's face was gleeful, and his grin mischievous. "Nice little conversation you had with the doctor there. I could tell you're really enjoying your stay." In one hand he held a water bottle, in the other hand, a rosary.

Sam cracked a smile. "Holy water? Really? Was this actually necessary?" He held his arms out for inspection. Obviously, he was not smoking or burning. Only soaking wet.

"You know me," Dean reached for Sam, ready to pull him in for a quick brotherly hug. "Always making sure you're good to go." They embraced, and a now wet and cold Sam relished in his brother's burly warmth. "Glad to see you're ok." Dean mumbled into Sam's shoulder. He tried to hide the affection in his voice, but it really wasn't working.

"Yah, man. You too." They held that hug for a few more seconds. But it wasn't like they were having a chick moment or anything.

Pssh. Of course not.

_Manly cough, manly cough._

"He-hem." Dena cleared his throat and the brothers separated, both shrugging their shoulder and shaking their arms a bit. Dean gave Sam a once over. He looked tired and weak, but good.

Actually, too good.

"Sam," Dean began, looking suspicious already. Sam sensed his unease.

"What is it, Dean?"

"How are you not in bandages and shit and hooked up to a bunch of gismos, man? I mean, I knew you would wake up after we killed the Aswang, but shouldn't you still be a mess? You were stuck like a pig, kiddo." Dean was very curious, considering the same thing had happened to him.

"Well," Sam began, not wanting to talk here in the hallway. "How about I tell you once we hit the road." Dean could tell that whatever Sam had to say was important and would give them both the answers they needed, so he didn't press.

"Ok, sheriff. Where's your shit?" Dean looked around the white room for Sam's bag.

"I honestly don't know, Dean. They hid my stuff. They kept trying to make sure I stayed in bed."

"Did they really like you that much? Did you make a bunch of new friends?" Sam smiled. He had missed his Dean's sarcasm. Hospitals were the least entertaining places on earth, as far as he was concerned.

"No, I didn't. Sorry to disappoint."

Dean gave a fake reproachful look. "Not even that hot nurse crying over your bedside? Sammy, have I taught you nothing?" He laughed and made his way to the nurses' station. They would have his stuff if it wasn't in the room.

"Ha-ha, maybe you're just a shitty mentor."

"Yah? Well maybe you're just a shitty apprentice!"

"I am not. You suck at teaching!"

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

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Bobby was waiting for them in the car when the two men sauntered out the wide glass doors. It had taken a while to find Sam's stuff, but hey had rescued his bag and made run for it, barely stopping to sign the paperwork.

Bobby's rigid shoulders relaxed at seeing Sam. He looked tired, but overall healthy. Another mystery to add to the pile.

"Hey, Bobby!" Sam gave him a huge wave and a smile, and Bobby felt a smile creep onto his face. That kid could make any day seem like a good day. Even as a child, he had a way of making everyone smile.

"Glad to see you up and about, Sam." Bobby got out of the car and met them halfway. He patted Sam on the arm. "You had us worried there, kiddo."

A grin crept into Sam's face. He turned to Dean, who was looking away. "You were worried about me?"

"Of course not." Dean snorted indignantly. "I knew you'd be fine. You know, especially cuz _it was me_ saving you. I always have to pull your ass out of the fire. I anything you've become more of a nuisance than a responsibility."

"You were worried about me!" Sam let out a good natured laugh. "Oh, c'mon Dean, its ok! Admit it! You looooveee me!" Sam pulled him in for an overly dramatic hug intended to embarrass him and Dean jumped away, looking frightened.

"No! What the fuck is wrong with you!" Den dusted off his jacket out of habit. "You're such a creep, Sam. Jesus…" He trailed off and ducked into the driver seat. "Hey, Bobby. Make sure you sit shotgun. I don't want Romeo over here getting all 'Huggy' while I'm driving."

Bobby just laughed and climbed in. Sam walked around the trunk and opened the door to the backseat, a smile plastered on his face. They pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main drag.

"So, Sam, now that you've got your hormones under control," Den began, checking the right lane. "What is it you wanted to tell me?"

"Well," how should he say this? Dean and Death weren't exactly best friends, and they hadn't left on the best of terms. Sam couldn't actually understand why Death had even helped them in the first place. None of it made any sense. "Well, we had…outside help."

Dean snorted. "No shit, Sherlock. I kind of figured that when you were fine and I wasn't dead."

"What?" Sam's was sitting forward in his seat. "What do you mean _you weren't dead?" _He waited for a response but got none. "Bobby? What does he mean? What did you two do?"

"We…we, uh. We had a long night." Bobby didn't want to say anything. It was Dean's issue, and he knew that telling Sam would not only make him insanely guilty, but also worry him.

Sam was angry. He could see that whatever happened was important and _incredibly dangerous_, but they were both refusing to say anything. Dean out of stubbornness, and Bobby out of respect for Dean. "A long night? Really?! Long night. Yah, well I didn't exactly sleep like a baby, you know. So what happened? Because _a long night_ is not very helpful. Matter of fact, that's exactly what Death said, and we all know he is anything but helpful. Actually, he's kind of a-"

Dean slammed on the brakes, veering into the dirt on the side of the road.

"DEATH? DID YOU JUST SAY DEATH?" he was fuming, and obviously a little freaked out. Sam was almost annoyed by his surprise._ Honestly, Dean. Should we be surprised by anything anymore?_

"Yes, Dean. That's what I was going to tell you. Death popped in and saved us. Why? I don't know." He finished, cutting off Dean's pending barrage of questions. "I also don't know why he was so nice about it."

"Nice? What did he do, leave you a Hallmark card? '_Get well Soon Apocalyptic Douchebag_'?" Dean scoffed. He was obviously not too pleased knowing that Death had been so close to his brother and hadn't done anything…death-ish. It was unnatural.

"Well, he was actually pretty nice, Dean…for a horseman. He… gave me pizza."

"Ok, no." Dean raised his hands in surrender. "No comprendo. Why the hell would the Horseman, DEATH, give you pizza. Seriously, Sam. Are you sure this happened at all, or was this some psychotic Moose Dream?"

Sam groaned. He figured Dean wouldn't believe him. "I'm serious Dean. He showed up right after I basically called Tessa a bitch. I thought he was there to yell at me and reap me himself but-"

"WOAH! AGAIN! Tessa? Dude! You were being reaped?! What the hell!"

"Dean, I was fine. I had everything under control."

"MY ASS YOU DID!"

The two boys went back and forth arguing, Sam getting more and more flustered, Dean's face the color of a tomato. Bobby sat in the middle complacently. He was just listening to them argue, and couldn't help but smile. The insults were flying back and forth now like meatloaf at a cafeteria food fight. Bobby sighed. Once Dean made a grab for Sam's throat and Sam had wrapped one huge leg around Dean's chest from the backseat, Bobby figured he should probably step in.

"All right, THAT"S ENOUGH!"

The boys halted, their wrestling at a standstill. Dean was half in the backseat, his head in a merciless choke hold as Sam froze mid-nuggie. Dean's left hand was comically pushing Sam's face into a distorted mush. He had one leg on the steering wheel and another trying to kick Sam behind his head. They would have continued bickering if Bobby hadn't shouted. He carried the same authority in his voice as John had.

"Bu'…"Dean was gurgling to speak in his chokehold. "This idio' sta'ted Id!" he clumsily gestured to Sam.

Bobby rolled his eyes. He still had to play Father even though they were in their late twenties. "Dean," He glared at Dean's pouting face. The oldest Winchester looked like he was ten. "I don't care who started it. I'm ending it." He watched with one eyebrow raised as the two brothers shoved and pushed with much more force than was required. Once they were separated and sitting complacently, Bobby continued. "We've got more important issues than you two old ladies' bickering." He raised his eyebrows, signaling his request for a response. Both men looked down at their feet.

"Yes sir."

"Good." Bobby turned away, and Dean reached around to quietly punch Sam in the arm.

"Hey!" Sam hoarsely whispered.

"Shuddup!" Dean mouthed at him.

"Boys," Bobby didn't even have to turn away from the window.

"Yes sir."

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Bobby finished packing his trunk and turned to face the brothers. Dean stood, hand in pockets as Sam handed Bobby his smaller bag for the trip home.

"Thanks for your help, Bobby." Dean pulled the old man in for a hug. "I guess you're not completely useless yet." Dean laughed and allowed Bobby to slap him upside the head.

"Idjit." The old man went back to hug Sam. "Feel better soon. Don't let your brother do anything stupid."

"Hey, I resent that!" Dean chimed in from the motel doorway.

"Don't worry, Bobby. I'll take good care of him." Sam gave him a final pat on the shoulder and waved as the truck pulled onto the road. Bobby honked once, then disappeared.

Sam walked back inside and sat down on the loveseat. Dean walked around the couch and handed him a cold beer from behind. Sam was slightly surprised. "Oh, thanks man." Sam popped the top and took a long gulp. He could feel the tension in the room, though. There was something his older brother wanted to ask him. Sam exhaled loudly. "What is it, Dean?"

Dean plopped down next to him and finished his own beer in one long go. "Well, Sammy boy," Dean threw the empty can into the recycle bin across the room. "I was wondering...why?"

Sam waited, then raised an eyebrow. "Why _what_, Dean?"

"Why didn't you…say yes?"

"Say yes to whom?"

"…Tessa." Dean continued, interrupting Sam who was about to cut in. "Seriously, Sam. Why? The odds were all stacked against you. I actually didn't even succeed. I killed the monster, sure, but not quick enough! You were already dead by the time our beastie was burning. You should have said yes. You would have stayed there forever, unable to move on. That's…that's torture. I mean, for Christ's sake, you weren't even going to hell! There was nothing to lose by saying yes!"

Sam scoffed a bit and took another sip.

"But what I want to know is why you would do something as stupid as not taking Tessa's offer. You knew better, Sam. We can't depend on another like that. Blind Faith gets us nowhere. We've learned that over the years, haven't we?" Dean was up now, pacing in front of the coffee table. Obviously, he felt guilty about not being the one to save Sam, and he was also obviously unsettled. Knowing Sam had been that close to leaving forever…It wasn't exactly comforting. Dean probably wouldn't sleep well for another couple weeks.

Sam's head was hanging, and he averted his eyes from Dean's. "You want to know why, Dean?"

"No, Sam. I don't. I just said I did ten times and gave you a whole monologue behind my reasoning for the hell of it."

_I'm sorry; did I say I __missed__ his sarcasm?_

"Don't be a smartass, Dean." Dean restrained himself from issuing a sizzling comeback. Sam shifted in his seat and looked up. "I didn't just say no, Dean. She let me think about it for a few hours before she came back. I was really on edge actually, Dean, because of the exact same reasons you just listed. I thought I was going to stay here forever, without you. I thought I was done." He paused, and it sank in. Dean started feeling really shitty for what he had said, and even guiltier that he hadn't been able to help him sooner. With a cynical, disgusted look, Sam continued. "I was going to say yes…" the silence in his break was deafening. Dean felt a lump jump into his throat, and was about to say something, but Sam gave a loud breath and continued. "Yes, Dean. I was going to leave. I was going to leave and never look back because I figured that whatever was waiting for me couldn't be worse than hanging around in a hospital for eternity. Unfortunately, I guess I still have blind faith." Sam smiled reluctantly. The irony of the situation was too much. "To top the cake, Dean, I actually told Tessa the reason I was staying was because you wanted me to, and you would tell me to hold on with everything I had. Funniest part is, here you are telling me I should have given in." Sam stood, obviously hurt. How could Dean possibly tell Sam to leave, to abandon him? Sam had been a goner either way. It was none of Dean's business.

"Sam…" Dean felt so stupid. "Obviously, I didn't mean it like that, ok? I was just upset and worried, and slightly appalled that you actually have any faith in me at all." Dean ran a hand through his hair and turned. He felt like a pile of shit. Sam, meanwhile, was confused. He placed a hand on Dean's shoulder and turned him around.

"Dean, why wouldn't I have faith in you, man? You're my brother. You've always been there for me, and I never doubted you for a second." Sam pulled him in for a hug, much to Dean's embarrassment. But…Sam felt warm and comforting, like a safety blanket or an overly-large teddy bear.

_A teddy bear._

A memory flooded its way into Dean's mind, and it made him smile.

"Hey Sam," Dean began.

"What?"

"You remember when you were little and you had that Teddy Bear that you hugged to sleep every night?" His grin widened.

Sam had to think about it for a minute, but the memory came to him clearly. "Oh yah! I loved that thing! Oh, God. What was his name…?"

Dean laughed. "Theodore, remember? You couldn't be like a regular three-year old and name the damn thing Teddy. You had to go for the more proper and fancy name."

Sam chuckled and closed his eyes. Yah, he had been a strange child…all other things excluded. "So, why are you bringing him up? That's not even relevant to anything we were talking about. Honestly Dean, you can't always just change the topic like that." Dean smiled and just nodded his head.

"Believe it or not, this is relevant. I was just thinking about how much I hated that stinkin' bear."

"What? That makes no sense. It was an inanimate object Dean- filled with cotton and Chinese thread." Sam was laughing at the ridiculousness of it.

"I know, I know." Dean's hands were up in surrender mode. "I was a dumbass. But…I was…jealous." He looked at his little brother earnestly, indicating that he wasn't joking around. "Now, mind you, I was only seven or eight at the time, but I remember telling Dad how I wished you loved me as much as that stupid Bear." Dean's eyes were foggy with the memories.

"Dean, you know I loved you more than stuffed animal. You were my big brother; you were awesome and invincible. You still are."

"Thanks, Sammy. Yah, that's what I thought too. But I got angry at the stupid piece of fluff. I threw him in a garbage bin behind the motel residence building somewhere in Minnesota." He paused.

_Why am I telling him this? What the hell? This isn't some Jerry Springer episode, Dean!_

But the story kept flowing.

"After about three hours on the road, you were tired and needed some shut eye, but that stupid bear wasn't in the backseat with you. You started screaming and crying, and I thought my heart would break. You kept yelling for Theodore with tears cascading down your face. I wanted to vomit, Sammy. I really did. Dad pulled over and I ripped that car apart, Sam, hoping that the bear had miraculously snuck its way back into the trunk, or climbed up on to the dashboard. Anything, so you wouldn't be sad." Sam was staring at the floor, disbelieving.

"It went on for days, Sammy. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. One night, while we were staying in this real dumpy place a couple hundred miles outside of Minnesota, I broke under the guilt. It was eating at me, tearing my soul into bits and pieces. I waited until Dad was asleep and I ran away. I hitchhiked all the way back to that motel, even having to walk the last ten miles from a truck stop. Then, I found the motel, said a quick prayer, and I went dumpster diving." Dean was shaking his head at his own stupidity. All the young Winchester could do was sit there and listen, unable to picture Dean doing anything of the sort.

"Dad, well… Dad caught up with me later. He had been looking for me for over a week. I hadn't even realized I had been gone that long." Dean started to chuckle. "The old man found me on the side of the highway somewhere in Nebraska covered in garbage and clinging to your smelly, ripped up teddy bear like it was the Holy fucking Grail. I was in so much trouble for that little stunt; I don't think I could sit comfortably for a week. But," Dean paused again to look up at a now teary Sam. "The week after you went to law school, Dad got really drunk. He told me his version of the story. He said he was never angry, just scared. He said it was the sweetest thing I had ever done and that he was proud of me. Too bad the old man could only say that to me was when he was piss poor drunk..."

Sam noticed the painful tone in Dean's voice as he said those last lines. He wanted to say something, but knew his voice would betray him. He let Dean continue.

"Anyway, I washed the stupid Bear about five times until it smelled like dish soap, sewed up his battle wounds, and plopped him down next to you one day in the car. You freaked out, Sammy." Dean was genuinely laughing now. "You flipped shit, screaming and hugging the damn thing till I thought my less-than-adequately-sewn stitches would burst. But then…you did the weirdest thing. You put the bear down on the seat next to you, and you hugged me. You hugged _me_, Sam. Not the bear. And from then on, it was me that you fell asleep holding. And I felt like I had done something right as your brother for the first time. But I never forgave myself for making you so sad, Sam. I still haven't. And I guess," He took a deep breath. "Well, I guess…Ah, hell. I don't know why the hell I told you that." Dean slapped his hands down on his knees and stood from the chair by the window. He was blushing and was excruciatingly embarrassed. "Never mind. Forget I said anything. Jesus, I feel like I've mentally raped myself. Just erase this incident from your memory and-"

"Dean." Sam finally trusted his voice not to break.

"What?"

Sam stood up off of the couch and closed the distance between them with two giant steps. He embraced his brother and squeezed. "I forgive you, Dean. For everything you ever did, have done, and will do. And I will always like you more than Theodore, because I will always feel better knowing you're there."

Dean felt the weight of the world lift off his shoulders. He wrapped his arms around Sam and squeezed back, for once not caring if they looked completely and utterly gay. This was his little brother, and his little brother loved him. He loved him even after all the shit He had done, after all the times he had screwed up. Dean felt forgiven. He realized his subconscious reasoning for his word vomit. Dean had felt guilty, and every once in a while, he knew some of that guilt had to be lifted.

"So," Dean knew he had to break the tension with humor. It was his job, after all. "Have we had enough hugs today?"

Sam laughed and released him, but knew that Dean wasn't actually upset. "Yah, I'd say we met the quota."

"So, does this mean you forgive me for messing with Theodore?"

"Yes, Dean. Fuck the stupid Teddy Bear."

"Ok. Good…Oh, and Sam?"

"What, Dean?"

"…Can I borrow your laptop again?"

"Absolutely not."

"Yah, I sort of figured."

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That night, Sam couldn't sleep. Despite his own predictions, however, Dean was snoring loudly on the other bed, feet hanging out from the edges and covers thrown violently to the floor. His left hand was sprawled over his face, wiping the drool away subconsciously every couple of minutes. Sam couldn't see Dean's right hand, but that's because he knew it was resting comfortably on the handgun beneath the pillow. Sam smiled to himself. He had been telling the whole truth. He really did feel safe when Dean was around. He knew Dean would always be there to protect him. Meanwhile, Sam was there to make sure Dean didn't go overboard. Plus, Sam still had to perform his brotherly duties: being a pain in the ass.

He reached over to the bedside table and set his alarm for seven. Tomorrow was Tuesday, and maybe, just to be a smartass, he would sing Asia in the shower instead.

"_Heat of the moment…."_

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**THE END!**

**Thank you so much for the reviews I got with this story. If you haven't reviewed and have been following along, please please please do so. I can't tell you how happy the reviews make me, guys, and I have had a pretty bad week. I know this chapter was kind of long, but there was so much stuff to be resolved. If you didn't like the ending, I'm sorry; it was kind of a spur of the moment idea. Again, this concludes my FanFic Virginity, so Thank you to everyone who reviewed and followed and favorited me. It made this journey so special. Look out for my next one, guys. It will be headed your way soon. I think I might get into a little bit more mature stories, maybe even a Destiel for fun! **** Again, thank you all so much. It meant a lot. From the bottom of my Heart, I thank you for being awesome.**

**3 **


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